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Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed. [Illustration: HOLD FAST. "Hold fast, brother, hold fast!" shouted poor Sam in mortal
terror at my danger.] HOLD FAST.New Stories No. 5. BY
A. L. O. E.
T. NELSON AND SONS. LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK. HOLD FAST.BY
A ∙ L ∙ O ∙ E
"NAY, my child, I've nothing else to hold by, either in life or death,
but the great truth, that Christ died for sinners.It's a joyful thing
to hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life which God hath given
us through our Lord Jesus Christ! "The speaker was Peter Ross, a blind and aged man, with bald head
and silvery beard, who, clad in a pauper's dress, had come, as he
was allowed once a fortnight to do, to visit the house of his son.The listener was a rosy-checked girl, about nine years of age, who,
seated at his feet, and resting her little arms on his knee, looked up
lovingly into his face. "Ah!grandfather," said Rose, "if you did not hope to go to heaven,
I don't know who else could!You are so good, so patient, so kind;
you have served God all your life long; you have never been given to
drinking and swearing, like the wicked men in our court, and I really
think that you know nearly half of the Bible by heart!I'm certain that
you deserve heaven!" "Rose, Rose," cried the old man earnestly, "my only plea for heaven
is this,—"
"I'm a poor sinner, and nothing at all;
But Jesus Christ is my all in all! ""I can't tell how it is," said Rose, looking into his face with a
puzzled expression, "the best people seem to think themselves the
worst. If I was half as good as you are, grandfather, I'd be quite sure
of getting to heaven. ""By your good works, my child!" "Yes, by my good works," repeated Rose. "I can see why bad people hope
to be saved only by the Lord; but it must be so very different with
pious people like you! ""Rose," said the blind old man, "do you think that I ever pass one day
without sin?" "I'm sure that you do," replied Rose, "I never knew you do anything
wrong. ""If my salvation were to depend upon my passing one waking hour without
sin, Rose, my poor soul would be lost! Remember that God looks at the
heart.His pure eyes read the evil thought; he knows not only the
sinful things that we do, but the duties which we leave undone. All our
righteousnesses are as filthy rags; that truth is written in the Bible. ""But I can't see," persisted the little girl, "that you need to be
saved by the Lord just in the same way as Luke Dobson did, who was run
over by a cart when he was drunk.He lay ill for months and months,
and father says that he repented, and hoped to go to heaven at last,
because the Lord died for sinners.Now there must be a very great
difference between his case and yours, for he was once a very bad man,
and treated his wife very cruelly when he had been at the public. ""My dear child," said the aged Christian, laying his thin hand on the
curly head of Rose, "I have no more power to reach heaven by my works
than poor Luke Dobson had by his.The blood of Jesus Christ which
cleanseth from all sin, is just as much needed to wash away mine as it
was to wash away his. He depended on the mercy of the Saviour, and I
have nought else to depend on." "I can't understand that," said Rose. "I'll tell you what happened to me in my youth, Rose, nigh three score
years ago, when I was not much older than you are.It seems to me a
sort of picture, as it were, of the way in which sinners are saved, and
how there's nothing that we have to trust to but God's mercy in Christ. ""I should like to hear what happened to you, grandfather; but I want
to ask just one question first. If the wicked and the steady all need
mercy alike, where's the use of doing good, and trying to put away our
sins?Why should we not live as we choose, and trust that all will come
right in the end?" Old Peter looked grave as he replied. "Because no one who really
belongs to the Saviour can bear to continue in wickedness.The Lord
died not only to save His people from hell, but from sin; and they hate
and dread the one as they hate and dread the other. I'll try and show
you what I mean by my story. ""It's nigh sixty years ago, as I said, when I was a young, strong,
active lad, that I lived for some months by the sea-shore.Our dwelling
was near the beach, in a place where the cliffs were rugged and high—so
high, that when we looked front the top of one of them, men walking on
the sands beneath seemed little bigger than crows. ""I set out one day to gather shells—for that was a wonderful place for
shells—and the gentry as came to the village hard by, used often to buy
them from us. I wasn't going alone. I took with me my brother, poor
Sam. ""He and I went together, each with a bag to hold the shells, which was
hung by a long string round our necks, so as to leave our hands quite
free.The last thing our mother said to us afore we started was this,
'Mind, lads, and don't go too far; for the tide is on the turn, and
the waves be running high, and if ye go as far as High cliff, there's
danger that ye both may be drowned. '""'No fear, mother! 'said I; 'even if the tide should come in upon us,
I reckon that I'm active and strong enough to climb to the top of the
cliff; but I could not say as much for Sam, with his weak arms and the
swelling on his ankle, I know he has no chance of climbing, so I'll
keep out of harm's way for his sake. '""'And for your own, too, Peter,' said Sam, as we walked along the beach
together; 'you are strong and active, to be sure, but you are no more
able than I be, to climb up such a mighty high cliff. '""'There may be two opinions as to that,' said I, for I had a great
notion of my own powers, and prided myself on being agile as a goat on
the rocks.Well," pursued the blind pauper, "we had plenty of luck that
day in finding shells on the shore; both of us filled our bags, and we
were so eager and pleased with our success, that we wandered on farther
and farther, and scarce gave a thought to the tide, till we saw the
white creamy foam tossed on the sand from the waves that came rolling
and tumbling in shore, and we looked up and saw the great white cliff
rising high and bluff before us! ""'I say, Sam,' cried I, 'just see how the tide's coming in! 'Tis time
for us to make the best of our way back to mother!'" "My brother turned white as a sheet. ''Tis too late for that,' said
he, giving a wildered gaze at the waste of heaving billows.For the
coast just there made a bend like a crescent, and though we stood upon
dry land still, the white-topped waves, both afore and ahind us, were
rolling right up to the cliff!Where we had walked dry-shod not an hour
before, there was nothing to be seen but the waters which soon would
cover the place where we were!" "'What's to be done!' cried my brother, as he looked up at the great
rocky wall before us. "'Keep a good heart!' | A. L. O. E. - Hold fast |
said I, 'I'll climb up to the top o' the cliff,
and then I'll get help and a rope, and we'll draw you up to safety.'" "So I put down my bag, and I pulled off my jacket, for it was clear
enough that I could not climb with them.I knew well, though I didn't
choose to say it, that it would be hard work to get to the top of so
high and steep a cliff; but I did not know, I would not believe that
it was impossible for me to do so.By dint of straining every muscle,
clasping, clutching at every jutting crag or little rock-plant that
offered a hold, I managed to struggle up a few yards. But the way grew
steeper and harder.I could scarcely find place for my foot, or hold
for my hand; the earth was slipping beneath me!I panted—I gasped—I
strained—feeling myself falling, I tried, with a violent effort, to
catch hold of a little stump that secured to be just beyond my reach.I
caught it, but lost my footing—hung for a moment by one hand, then the
stump gave way, and with a cry of fear I fell heavily down the rock!" "Oh! grandfather, were you much hurt? "exclaimed Rose, who had listened
with breathless interest to Peter's account of his perilous adventure. "Not badly hurt," said the blind man; "but enough bruised and shaken to
be kept from the folly of trying the climbing again. ""Then you were just in the same case as your brother, though you had
fancied yourself so much better able to get to the top than he." "That's it; that's what I wished you to see," cried Peter. "It is for
that I tell you the story.We were alike helpless, my child, the strong
and the weak, the active and the maimed, neither could reach the top;
both were just in the same danger of being drowned by the coming tide. And so it is with the matters of the soul.One man seems wiser, another
better, another bolder than his fellows; but the wisest, the boldest,
the best, can never reach heaven by their efforts. The way is too high,
too steep, to be climbed!Their good deeds break away; they can't
support them; they can't hold them up from destruction!" "But how were you saved?" exclaimed Rose, more eager to hear the story
than to gather its moral. "My brother and I felt that there was but one thing which we could
do—we must loudly call out for assistance.We cried aloud again and
again; we lifted up our voices with all our might, and as God in his
mercy ordered, the sound of our cry was heard from the top of the
cliff.And so it is with the sinner, my child, when he feels that he
is in danger of eternal death, when he finds that he has no power in
himself to help himself, and that unless God come to his aid, he is
lost and ruined for ever.The cry, God be merciful to me a sinner! is
heard even above the heavens, and mercy comes to the rescue!" "Was a rope let down from the top of the cliff?" asked the impatient
Rose. "A rope was let down," replied Peter, "and it was long enough, and
strong enough to save us. It was let down not a minute too soon, for
already the sand on which we stood was washed by every advancing wave!Sam, who was terribly frightened, at once caught hold of the rope, and
clung to it as for his life. Nay, if I remember right, he fastened it
round his body.But my courage, or rather presumption, had risen once
more, as soon as I found that means were provided to draw us up safely
beyond the reach of danger. I put on my jacket again, and passed the
string of my bag of shells round my neck. 'Since I have not to climb,'
cried I, 'there's no use in leaving them behind; I've no mind to part
with one of 'em! 'Now, mark my words, Rose, my child, I was thinking in
an earthly matter as you thought just now when you said, 'if the wicked
and the steady all need mercy alike, what's the use of doing good, and
putting away our sins? 'I believed that the rope was enough to save me;
and so in truth it was; but how could I hold fast by the rope, when I
carried a weight round my neck!" "I see—I see! "exclaimed Rose; "you must leave your heavy bag behind
you; for though the rope might not break, you could not keep your hold
on it, while the weight was dragging you down! ""No more than any man who wilfully keeps one sin, can continue safely
to hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life. He but deceives
himself if he ever tries to do so. I soon found out, as I was drawn
upwards, what a fearful mistake I had made!I had not risen many feet
above the sands when a horrible dread arose in my mind that I should
never be able to hold on till I had reached the top of the cliff!The
muscles of my arms ached terribly, my fingers could scarcely keep their
grasp, and the string round my neck seemed to choke me, like the gripe
of an iron hand!" "'Make haste!' I gasped out in agony, scarce able to bring out the
words. 'Oh!be quick—be quick—or I shall be forced to let go!'" "'Hold fast, brother, hold fast!' shouted poor Sam in mortal terror
at my danger.The men above were straining every nerve to pull us up
before my strength should fail me; but oh, how fearfully slowly we
seemed to ascend!" "The strain on my arms now was torture! My brain grew dizzy. I could
scarcely breathe.I had but one thought—one maddening wish—to get rid
of the fatal bag! It seemed to grow heavier every moment; it was as if
some barbarous foe were pulling me down to destruction!I felt that
unless I could be relieved of the weight, I must let go, and be dashed
to pieces! I dared not attempt to cling by one weary hand, so as to use
the other to untie the fatal string!I cried in despairing agony to
God, for I was beyond all help from man.I know not to this day how his
mercy wrought,—whether the weight on it snapped the string, or whether
in my struggles the knot was untied; but never, till my dying hour
shall I forget the sense of relief, when suddenly something gave way,
I felt that the weight was gone; I heard a splash in the waters below,
and in another minute was firmly grasped by a hand stretched out from
above!""Oh! grandfather, what a mercy!" exclaimed Rose, drawing a long breath. Her heart had beat fast at the account of such terrible danger. "A mercy, indeed!" said the old man solemnly, clasping his hands
together, as memory recalled the awful scene. "Had that bag, instead
of shells, contained all the wealth of the world, how thankful should
I have been to have dropped it into the sea for ever! As that weight
was to my body, so is sin to the soul!In vain do we grasp the hope of
salvation, in vain do we seem to be raised from a state of danger by
the mercy of Christ, if we resolve not to try to cast from us every sin
that our God condemns! Without holiness no man shall see the Lord.We
must cast away every weight, and the sin that doth so easily beset us;
not in our own poor strength, but in the power of prayer, looking to
God, trusting to God, ready to give up everything for God!Then will
His love never fail us; He will never leave us to perish. By His grace | A. L. O. E. - Hold fast |
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed. NEW STORIES
The Look of the Thing and Other Stories
BY
A. L. O. E.
NEW YORK:
GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL.UNION AND CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY. 762 BROADWAY. 1865.PUBLISHED
THROUGH THE OFFERINGS
OF
The Sunday School
OF
TRINITY CHURCH, BRIDGEPORT, CONN. CONTENTS. No. 1 THE LOOK OF THE THING.No. 2 GOOD-BYE. No. 3 GOOD FOR NOTHING. No. 4 HOW LIKE IT IS! NEW STORIES
BY
A. L. O. E.
No. 1—THE LOOK OF THE THING.NEW YORK:
GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL. UNION AND CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY. 762 BROADWAY. 1865. THE LOOK OF THE THING. REBECCA BURTON and Lydia White sat chatting over their tea.They were
near neighbours, for they dwelt opposite to each other; and Rebecca,
who earned her living by going out washing and charing, and had but a
lonely time of it during the long winter evenings, was often invited
by kind Widow White to share a meal with her and her little daughter
Agnes.Not that Rebecca was one whose society gave much pleasure to
her friend: she was a bustling, gossiping woman, very full of her
neighbours' concerns.Where there is little thinking, there is apt to
be much talking; it has been well said that only empty bottles are
never corked up.Little Agnes, with her large black attentive eyes, sat perched on a
high chair beside her mother, listening to every word that was spoken,
and not a little amused by Rebecca's idle gossip.While slice after
slice of buttered toast and tea-cake were despatched, cup after cup of
good black tea poured from the shining tea-pot, the guest talked as
eagerly and as fast, as if talking were "the business of life. ""Well, Mrs. White," said Rebecca, helping herself for the third time
from the well-filled plate, "I think that you've always had a bit of
a fancy for that Mrs. Miles, but she's not a person to my mind.Would
you believe it now, when the subscription went round for the poor
weavers,—and even I, hard up as I often am, could manage to drop a bit
of silver into the plate,—Mrs. Miles was not ashamed to put in only a
penny!And she with a house and shop of her own! I'm sure, if I'd been
she, I'd a deal rather have given nothing at all!" "What a mean creature Mrs. Miles must be," thought little Agnes to
herself. "Perhaps," said Mrs. White in her quiet tone, "you do not know that
for the last year Mary Miles has been struggling hard to pay the debts
brought on by her husband's long illness.She, no doubt, feels it her
duty to be just before she is generous, and however willing to give
much, knows that it would not be honest to do so." "Oh, but think of the look of the thing!" exclaimed Rebecca; "who was
to know of her debts?But Mrs. Miles,—she's an odd woman," continued
the charwoman, lowering her voice, though not sufficiently so to
prevent every word being heard by Agnes: "though people say she's so
good, I take it she's not all that folk fancy her to be.You think it
right to go to church regularly, don't you? I often see you there with
your little girl." "Mother always goes to church," exclaimed Agnes, "even if it is raining
ever so hard! ""That's right," said Rebecca, approvingly; "it always looks well when
one is never missed from one's place in church. But I've noticed that
Mrs.Miles has kept away these last two Sundays, and I know that she
has not been ill, for I've seen her on week-days serving in the shop. Even if she don't care for religion, I wonder that she don't attend
steadily, if but for the look of the thing.""Mrs. Miles goes to church for something better than the look of the
thing," said the widow, with a quiet smile; "I am so glad that you
mentioned the subject to me, that I may be able to set you right.These
last two Sunday mornings have been spent by Mary Miles in nursing poor
sick Annie Norris, that her daughter may go to church; and then, in the
evening, Mary herself attends a place of worship with her husband.I
think it a privilege to go to the house of prayer, but I believe that
Mary Miles is doing her Master's work just as truly while nursing a
poor sick neighbour, reading the Bible to her, and giving up her Sunday
rest that another may be able to enjoy it,—as if she attended every
service in the church. ""Ah, well," exclaimed Rebecca, half impatiently, "you are always one
to find excuses; you're ready enough to stand up for your friends! Another drop of tea, if you please," and she pushed her cup across the
table.Then, turning towards little Agnes, she said, in a different
tone, "You must come and pay me a visit some day, my dear,—I have
something to show you worth the seeing.I've been subscribing for a
long long while to the Illustrated Bible, and with some money which
I got as a Christmas box, I've had the numbers bound together into
such a beauty of a book.But I dare say that your mother has done the
same,—she's one to honour the Bible, as all know. Whenever one sees a
large handsome Bible in a parlour, to my mind it's a kind of sign of
the respectability of the people in it.None of your nick-nacks, say I;
give me a well-bound Bible, with shining edges and gilded cover!" and
Rebecca, proud of owning such a volume, sipped her tea with an air of
the utmost self-satisfaction. "Mother," said little Agnes, "your Bible is very old,—it has not a bit
of gilding upon it, Could we not buy a new one?" "My old Bible is more precious to me," said Mrs. White, "than any new
one could be. It belonged to my own dear mother. ""It is shabby, though," observed Rebecca, glancing at the plain black
volume which lay on a shelf; "you might any ways have it new bound,—you
should think of the look of the thing. ""It is in good repair," said Mrs. White; "I am quite contented with my
Bible as it is." Rebecca gave a little meaning nod of her head, as if to say, "I care
more for the Bible than you do, though everybody thinks you a saint. "Nothing more, however, passed on the subject; and the guest soon
afterwards took her departure.Agnes, with her thoughtful black eyes fixed upon the old Bible, sat for
a while in silence, turning over in her young mind the conversation
that had passed between her mother and their neighbour. "What is my quiet little lassie dreaming about? "asked Mrs. White, who
was clearing away the tea things. "Mother," replied Agnes slowly, "I was thinking over what Rebecca
Burton said about Mrs. Miles, and your Bible which looks so old. You
and she didn't seem to feel alike.Is it not right, dear mother, to
care for the look of the thing?" "It is right to care something for appearances, but a great deal more
for realities," quietly observed Mrs. White. | A. L. O. E. - The look of the thing and other stories |
"I do not understand you at all," said Agnes; "is it not a good thing,
mother, to give to the poor, to go to church; and to honour the Holy
Bible? ""A very good thing, my child, if done not to win the praise of men, but
from the motive of love to God." "I do not know what 'motive' means," said Agnes. "It is the spring or cause of our actions.Two persons may give exactly
the same sum to help a poor creature in great distress.One gives her
shilling for the look of the thing, because she wishes the world to
think her generous; the other gives it for the love of God, and so
that He accept her offering, cares not if her gift be known by not one
being on earth.You must see that the motive of the second is piety,
the motive of the first is pride. Both women do the same thing, but one
does it to please God, while her neighbour only pleases herself. ""But so long as the money is given," said Agnes, "I don't see that the
motive matters very much." "It matters everything," observed Mrs. White, "in the eyes of Him who
readeth the heart.The cause of so much self-righteousness in the world
is this: people, respectable people I mean, count up all their own kind
actions, and never take the trouble of searching into their motives at
all.How few would say to themselves, 'I am honest indeed, but only
because I have found that the honest thrive best in the end;' 'I go to
church regularly, but only because it is thought a respectable thing to
do so;' 'I give freely, but only because I could not bear my neighbours
to call me mean;' 'I pay what I owe, but only because if I did not, no
one would trust me again. '""Do you not see, my child, that in all this the love of God is not
the motive?If as much gain, and respect, and praise could be had by
breaking God's laws as by keeping them, those who now do good deeds to
be seen of men, would do evil ones in their stead. "Perhaps little Agnes was growing sleepy, for Mrs. White could not help
perceiving that the child did not follow her argument.The mother did
not try to explain herself further; she waited for some opportunity of
making her little daughter understand more clearly the truth which was
so plain to herself.On the following morning Agnes came running up to her mother with a
look of delight. "See, see!" she exclaimed, "What a beautiful watch my
uncle has given me!" and she held up for the widow's admiration a very
pretty toy watch! "It looks just as well as yours, mother, indeed I
think it much the prettier of the two.Just see,—it has a chain, and
seals, and a nice shining face, with all the hours marked on it, and
slender little bright hands that I can move to any part with my key! Is
not my little watch just as good as yours, mother? ""As far as the look of the thing goes, yes, my dear," replied the
smiling parent. "There's hardly any difference between them," said Agnes; "only mine
looks a little the brighter, because, you know, it is new.Please tell
me the time, the exact time, that I may set my watch right." "A quarter of ten," said Mrs. White. With pride and pleasure little Agnes turned the hands, till they
pointed just to the hour.It was almost time for her to set off for
school, which she did in very high glee, showing to all the companions
whom she met the beautiful present of her uncle. "I am back a little earlier than usual, am I not, mother? "were the
first words of Agnes White, when she returned from morning school. "Oh,
you need not look at your watch,—you know I have now a watch of my
own! "Agnes pulled out her bright little toy, and there were the hands
exactly where she had placed them, pointing to a quarter of ten! "Did you expect them to move, when there was no mainspring inside?" asked the widow with a smile.Agnes scarcely knew whether to look vexed or amused. "I was a stupid
little girl to fancy that they would move," said she; "mine is a very
pretty watch, but it is only good to be looked at," and she laid it
down on the table with an air of disappointment. "Ah, my child," said Lydia White, gently drawing her little daughter
towards her; "is not the watch without springs like that of which we
were yesterday speaking, good conduct without a good motive?The most
precious part of a real watch is that part which is unseen; and in like
manner, it is the hidden motive for any good act which alone can give
it true value." "But ought we never to care how our conduct appears?" asked the child. "Yes, my Agnes," replied her mother, "for those who have been bought
with a price, even the precious blood of God's dear Son, are called to
glorify their heavenly Master both with their bodies and their souls.We are called so to live that the world may say, 'There must be power
in religion, for none are so honest, so true, so kind as those who are
servants of God.'" "I don't quite understand," said Agnes. "Look again, dear child, at my watch, it may help to make the subject
clearer. You know that the watch is a good one, you know that the
mainspring is right." Agnes nodded her head. "How is it that you know?" asked her mother. "The hands always point to the right place," replied Agnes; "they go
just the same as the church clock." "But suppose that we pull off the hands," said the widow. "O mother, that would be a pity,—you never would do such a thing!If
the hands were off, you might, wind up the watch, and the watch might
go, but it would be of no use to others." "Nor would it, do honour to its maker, my child. Now turn front the
watch to the subject which I am trying to explain by its means.If
the motive of love to God be like the mainspring to a Christian, the
cause of all his good actions, his outward conduct is like the hands
whose steady movements show that the mainspring is within.If they are
constantly right, we believe that the hidden wheels are right, we know
that the watch has been wisely made, carefully regulated, daily wound
up.So when the Christian quietly goes on his circle of duties, ever
seeking, by the help of God's grace, to do the will of his Lord,—he
shows to the world a living example of the power and truth of religion;
he does good not for the look of the thing, but because the love of
Christ constraineth him to act as conscience directs. "And then others, seeing the good example, may be led to follow it,"
observed Agnes, upon whose mind the meaning of her mother was now
dawning. "It is a common saying, Agnes, that 'example is better than precept,'"
observed Mrs. White. "If we must search carefully into our motives for
the sake of our own souls, we must also be watchful over our conduct,
for others' sakes as well as our own.Never can we too earnestly study,
too carefully follow the Saviour's command which refers to the outward
behaviour of those who have the hidden motive of love,—'Ye are the
light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid.Let
your light so shine before men that they may see your good works, and
glorify your Father which is in heaven.' (Matt. v. 14, 16.)" | A. L. O. E. - The look of the thing and other stories |
NEW STORIES
BY
A. L. O. E.
No.2—GOOD-BYE. NEW YORK:
GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL. UNION AND CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY. 762 BROADWAY. 1865. GOOD-BYE. "GOOD-BYE to you, Mr. Aylmer; I'm sorry that we're not to see you
again till the summer. You've always been ready with a good word, ay,
and a helping hand too for the poor.I'll miss your pleasant smile in
those dull, dark wintry days as have little enough to light 'em. And
little Emmy—she'll miss you too, won't you, my lamb? "said the Widow
Cowell, as she lifted up in her arms a pretty blue-eyed child of about
four years of age, to bid good-bye to the Catechist who was going to a
distant part, of the country. "Good-bye, Mary Cowell," said Aylmer, shaking with kindness the thin
hand which the widow held out; "and good-bye to you, dear little one,"
he added, as bending forward he kissed the brow of the child, between
her clustering locks of gold. "It's a solemn word, 'good-bye,' when we
think of the meaning that's in it." "I did not know as how it had any particular meaning," said Mary. "It's
a word that we're always a-saying, and sometimes with a heavy heart. ""'Good-bye,' is 'God-be-with-you,' shortened to a single word. It
is a blessing to the one who departs, echoed back to the one who
remains.God be with you, Mary Cowell; may you feel His presence in
the street—in the shop—by your board—by your bed—in your heart! You'll
have many a temptation to struggle against—God be with you in the hour
of temptation!You'll have many a trial to bear; God be with you then,
and he will turn all these trials into blessings! You've a little one
there, dear to your heart; remember that, like as a father pitieth his
children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him! ""Ay, bless her heart! I love her!" thought Mary, as she led her little
girl back into the small room which she hired by the week, in one of
the back streets of London. "But if God pities me, like as a father
pitieth his children, why does he so often leave me to want, why does
he make my lot so hard?I'm sure I'd keep my darling from every trouble
if I could, and if I had the means, she should sleep as soft, and fare
as well as any little lady in the land!" And in truth Mary Cowell was a kind and tender mother.The child had
ever the largest share of the scanty meal, and while the mother's shawl
was threadbare, soft and warm was the knitted tippet that wrapt the
little girl.Mary took a pride in her Emmy; she never suffered her to
run about the streets dirty and barefoot like many of the children
of her neighbours.Emmy's face was washed, and her yellow curls were
smoothed out every morning, and proudly did the fond mother look at
her little darling.The greatest sorrow which poverty brought to Mary
Cowell, was that it hindered her from giving every comfort and pleasure
to her child. "Mother," said Emmy on the following day, as she watched the widow
preparing to go out, putting on her rusty black bonnet and thin patched
shawl; "mother, you won't take the basket; it's Sunday; I hears the
bells a-ringing. ""I must go," said Mary with a sigh. "But didn't the good man tell us it was bad to go out a-sellin' on the
Sunday?" asked the child, with a grave look of inquiry in her innocent
eyes. "Poor folk must eat," said the widow sadly; "God will not be hard upon
us if want drives us to do what we never should do if we'd only enough
to live on." "May Emmy go wid you, mother? ""No, my lamb," answered Mary, "not to stand at the corner of the street
in this bitter sharp wind, and just catch your death of cold.It chills
one to the bones," added the widow, stirring up in her little grate
the fire which burned brightly and briskly, for the weather was frosty
and keen.Mary then took the remains of the morning's meal, the half
loaf and small jug of milk, and put them on the mantel-piece, out of
reach of the child. Her last care was to place a wire-guard before the
fire.Having often to leave her little girl alone in the room, Mary
dreaded her falling into danger, and had, by self-denial, scraped up a
sufficient number of pence, to buy an old wire fire-guard. "Now remain quiet there, my jewel!Don't get into mischief," said Mary. "Look at the pretty prints on the wall; mother won't be long afore she
comes back with something nice for her darling!" So saying the widow
kissed the child, took up her basket, and went to the door. "Good-bye, mother!" cried Emmy. The last sound which Mary heard as she
went down the old creaking stair was the "good-bye" from the sweet
little voice whose tones she loved so well. "She's a-blessing me without knowing it," thought Mary, recalling the
words of the Catechist. "She's a-saying 'God be with you!' I'm afraid
all's not right with me, for it seems as if I couldn't take any comfort
from the thought of God being with me!It makes my conscience uneasy to
know that He is watching me now that I'm a-going to break his law, and
sell on his holy day." O reader!If ever the thought of the presence of your heavenly Father
gives you a feeling of fear, rather than a feeling of comfort, be sure
that you are wandering from the right way, and—whatever excuse you may
make for yourself—that you are doing or thinking something that puts
your soul in danger!As Mary slowly made her way with her heavy basket to the corner of the
street where she usually stood to sell, a friend of hers passed her on
the way, but stopped and turned round to ask after Emmy who had not
been well.A few words were exchanged between the two women, and then
the friend, who had a Prayer-book in her hand, said, "I can't stop
longer now; I don't like to be late for church. Good-bye, Mrs. Cowell." "Good-bye!" repeated poor Mary. "Ah! "she said with a sigh, as she
watched her friend hastening on, "God will be with her, to bless her,
for I know that Martha serves Him.Oft-times I've heard her say, 'The
Lord is my Shepherd, I shalt not want;' and though she's no better off
than myself, it's wonderful, it is, how she has always had friends
raised up for her in her troubles; and when trials came the thickest,
how somehow or other a clear way out was always opened afore her!Martha says the best thing is to trust God and obey him, and that we
don't obey because we don't trust.May be there's truth in that word;
for if I really believed what Aylmer told me, that God cares for me as
I care for my Emmy, I should do even just as he bids me, and keep this
day holy.But it's hard to be hindered getting my bread honestly on one
day out of seven; I don't see the harm in a poor widow woman selling a
little on Sundays. | A. L. O. E. - The look of the thing and other stories |
"And yet Mary's mind was not easy; she had learned enough of God's
word to know that by selling her oranges and nuts upon the day which
the Lord has set apart for Himself, she was not only sinning herself,
but leading others into sin.When little children thronged round her
basket, eager to buy her fruit, Mary could not forget—she wished that
she could—the solemn warning of the Lord: "Whoso shall offend (cause
to sin) one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better
for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were
drowned in the depth of the sea. "There was a struggle in the mind of Mary between faith and
distrust,—between duty and inclination—between the desire to follow her
own will, and the knowledge that in all things we ought to follow the
will of God.Which side in the end won the victory will appear in the
end of my story. We will leave the widow doubting and hesitating at the
corner of the street, and return to little Emmy, whom her mother had
left carefully shut up in her lodging.The child amused herself for some minutes as the widow had desired her
to do, by looking at the coarse prints which were stuck with pins on
the white-washed wall. But Emmy soon tired of this, she had seen them
so often before.Then she sat down in front of the fire, and warmed her
little red hands at the kindly blaze, and wished that that tiresome
wire-guard were away, that kept so much of the glow out. "Why should mother not let me get all the good of the fire? "said the
little murmuring girl. "I'm sure there's no use in that thing that puts
the fire in a cage, and keeps me from doing what I like, and making
it blaze up high! "The child did not consider that one much older and
wiser than herself was likely to have good reasons for putting on
the guard.Emmy was no better judge of these reasons than the widow
herself was of the wisdom which had fenced round the day of rest with
the command, "On it thou shalt do no manner of work. "All that either
mother or child had to do was simply to trust and obey. But Emmy had a
wilful temper, and could not bear anything like restraint.Presently from looking at the fire, the child cast her eyes on the
mantel-piece above it, and the bread and white jug upon it. "Why did mother put them up there, when she knew that Emmy might be
hungry, and want to eat before she comes home? "And impatiently the
child stretched out her hand, and rose on her tiptoes, trying to reach
the food.She could not touch the lower part of the shelf; and well was
it for Emmy that the guard so wisely placed over the fire, prevented
her little frock from catching the flame as she did so! "Emmy will pull the chair to the place and climb up, and get at the
loaf!" cried the child, determined by some means to have her own way,
and procure what she thought that she needed.She ran off to a chair
placed in a corner, which was almost the only article of furniture,
besides the bed, to be found in that bare little room.But the chair
was of clumsy and heavy make, and had several articles heaped upon it;
all the efforts of Emmy were of no avail to drag it out from its place.The difficulty which she found in getting what she desired only served
to increase the eagerness of the child, and her determination to have
the loaf which had been purposely placed out of her reach.Emmy was
ready to cry, and accuse her tender mother of unkindness. And was she
not in this but too much like many who doubt the love of their Heavenly
Father because He has not placed in their hands what they think to be
needful for their comfort?At last a thought came into the mind of little Emmy, as she gazed,
through her tears, at the fire.She had not strength to move the big
chair, in vain she had struggled to do so; but might she not manage to
move the guard, and would it not serve her for a footstool to reach the
loaf on the mantel-piece?But then mother had told her so often not
to meddle with the guard! Why should mother forbid her to touch it?The voice of discontent and distrust in the bosom of the little child,
was much the same as that whose whisperings had led Mary Cowell to go
out selling on Sunday. With both parent and daughter it proved to be
stronger than conscience.Emmy laid hold of the guard and shook it;
but old as it was, she had not the power to pull it from its place. Presently, however, the child felt that though she could not pull she
could lift it.With eager pleasure Emmy raised the guard high enough
to release its iron hooks from the bars, and then there was nothing to
prevent her from removing the fence altogether.Emmy's first pleasure was to poke up the fire with the little rusty
bit of a poker which she had seen her mother use for the purpose, but
which she herself had never been permitted to touch.Then, eager to get
at the loaf; she put down the guard in front of the fire, so that she
might be able to step upon it. Wretched, disobedient little child!With
one foot on that trembling, yielding wire-work, one hand stretched up
to take food not lawfully her own, her dress so close to the flame that
in another moment it must be wrapt in a roaring blaze, what can now
save her from destruction?Suddenly the door opened, and with a cry of terror Mary Cowell sprang
forward in time—but just in time, to snatch her only child away from a
terrible death! "Oh, thank God—thank God—that I came home, that He made me turn back! "exclaimed the widow, bursting into tears. Little Emmy was punished, as she well deserved to be, for breaking her
mother's command, and doing what she knew that she ought not to have
done.But Mary Cowell, with a contrite heart, owned to herself, and
confessed to God, that she had deserved sharper punishment than her
child.There had been doubt and disobedience in both; but the older
sinner was the greater, for she had most cause to trust the providence
of a Father who is almighty as well as all-good.If the child had
removed a guard carefully and wisely placed before the fire which,
while kept to its proper use, is one of our greatest blessings, but
which to those who misuse it may prove the cause of burning and death;
what had the mother done?She had tried on the Lord's Day to earn bread
by treading her duty under foot, by putting aside, as far as she could,
that law by which the great God has fenced round His holy day, "Thou
shalt do no manner of work. "Grateful for the warning given her, never again did Mary carry forth
her basket on Sunday. Henceforth, by example as well as by precept, she
brought up her little one in the fear and love of God.And when, after
many years, the widow was called home to her soul's rest, she could
with peaceful hope thus bid her daughter farewell. "Good-bye, my loved one! God be with you in your trouble, He has never
failed me in mine! 'Trust in the Lord, and do good; dwell in the land
and verily thou shall be fed.' Good-bye, until we meet again, through
the Saviour's merits,—the Saviour's love,—in His kingdom of glory! | A. L. O. E. - The look of the thing and other stories |
"NEW STORIES
BY
A. L. O. E.
No. 3—GOOD FOR NOTHING. NEW YORK:
GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL. UNION AND CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY. 762 BROADWAY. 1865.GOOD FOR NOTHING. "GET away with ye, for an idle good for nothing thief!" exclaimed
Mrs. Paton, as with an angry gesture she waved from her door a ragged
miserable lad who stood before it. "Never shall you be trusted with
another errand by me!To take the biscuits out of the very bag! Don't
tell me you were hungry; don't tell me you won't be after doing it
again! I was ready, I was, to give you a chance, since I knew that you
was a homeless orphan; but I'll not be taken in twice!Go, beg about
the streets or starve, or find your way to the workhouse, or the jail! I wash my hands of you, I'll have nothing more to do with ye, I tell
you! Ungrateful and good for nothing as you are! "and as if to give
force to her words, Mrs. Paton slammed the door in his face. Rob Barker turned away from the house with the look of a beaten hound.He knew that the reproaches of the woman were not undeserved, that he
had not been faithful to his trust.Deprived, when a child, of his
parents' care, brought up in the midst of poverty and vice, growing
even as the weeds grow, uncared for and unnoticed, save as something
worse than useless, he seemed as if born to be trampled upon; he
appeared to be bound by no kindly ties to the fellow-creatures who
despised him.A feeling of savage despair was creeping over his soul. "Ay, I'm good for nothing, am I?" Rob muttered, as with slouching gait
he sauntered down the street not knowing whither to go, for all the
world was alike to him, a desert without a home.Almost fiercely he
looked at the passers-by, some on foot, some in carriages, some upon
prancing steeds. "They are good for something," thought Rob; "they
have their homes and their friends, their kind parents, their merry
children.They are loved while they live, and sorrowed for when they
die. But I, I have no one left on earth either to love or care for me,
or miss me when I'm gone. Life is just one tough hard struggle, there's
none will help me through it! "Rob stopped at the corner of a street, leant against an iron lamp-post,
and moodily folded his arms. The bare brown elbows were seen through
the holes in his tattered sleeves. His worn-out shoes would hardly hold
together. "I say, you, won't you come in there?" said a voice just behind him.Rob started, he so little expected to be addressed, and turning half
round he saw a pale boy, in clothes that were poor but not tattered,
who pointed to a door close by, over which was written "Ragged School." "I'm not wanted there," muttered Rob. "Every one's welcome," said the little boy, "and it's better to be in
a warm room, than standing out here in the cold!I'm late, very late
to-day, for I've been sent on an errand, but I think I'm in time for
the little address; teacher, she always gives us a bit of a story at
the end.I can't wait, but you'd better come in;" and with the force of
this simple invitation, Sandy Benne, for such was the young boy's name,
drew the half unwilling Rob within the door of a place where a devoted
servant of the Good Shepherd was trying to feed His lambs.Rob did not venture to do more than enter the low white-washed room
in which he heard the hum of many voices.A poor-looking room it was;
its only furniture, rough benches; its only ornaments, a few hymns and
texts in large letters fastened on the wall. Rob stood close by the
door, a shy, almost sullen spectator, watching the scene before him.The room was thronged with children, such children as, but for the
Ragged School, would have been playing about in the streets.Little
rough-headed urchins, who once had been foremost in mischief, pale
sickly boys who looked as if they had had no breakfast that morning.Seated, some on the benches, some on the floor, they were conning their
tasks with a cheerful industry which might have shamed some of the
children of the rich.But a few minutes after the entrance of Rob, at
a signal given by the teacher, a tall fair lady in mourning, books and
slates were put back in their places, the morning's lessons were ended,
and the school looked like a bee-hive when the bees are about to swarm. "Now we shall have the little address," whispered Sandy, who had kept
all eye upon Rob; "the teacher is going to knock upon the floor with
her parasol, and then, won't we be quiet as mice! "There was no need to call "silence;" two little raps upon the floor
were enough to make every rough scholar in the place go back to his
seat in a minute, and remain there as still as a statue.All the young
eyes were fixed on the teacher, the gentle loving lady, who daily left
her comfortable house to trudge, sometimes through rain, and snow, and
sleet, to spend her time, her strength, and her health, in leading
ragged children to the Saviour.Her voice was a little faint, for the
lady was weary with her work, though never weary of her work, but her
smile was kindly and bright as she began her short address. "I have promised to give you a story, my dear young friends," she
began, "and as I am speaking in a Ragged School, and to those who are
called Ragged Scholars, you will not be shocked or surprised if I
choose for my subject—a Rag. "The teacher's cheerful smile was reflected on many a young sunburnt
face; rags were a theme on which most of the company felt perfectly at
home, though few present, except poor Rob, actually wore the articles
in question. "On a miry road," continued the lady, "trodden down by hoofs, rolled
over by wheels, till it became almost of the colour of the mud on which
it was lying, lay an old piece of linen rag, which had been dropped
there by a beggar.Nothing could be more worthless, and long it lay
unnoticed, till it caught the attention of a woman who, with a child at
her side, was picking her way over the crossing." "'I may as well pick that up for my bag,' said the woman. ""'Oh, mother, don't dirty your fingers by picking up that rag!' cried
the boy with a look of disgust; 'such trash is not worth the trouble of
washing! It's good for nothing; just good for nothing; it is better to
leave it alone! '""'Let me judge of that,' said the woman; and stooping down, she picked
up the miry rag, all torn and stained as it was, and carried it with
her to her home.There she carefully washed it, and put it with other
pieces of linen in a bag; and after a while, it was sold for a trifle
to a manufacturer of paper. ""If the rag had been a living creature, possessed of any feeling,
much might it have complained of all that if had then to undergo.It
was torn to pieces, reduced to shreds, beaten till it became quite a
pulp; no one could have guessed who looked at it then that it had ever
been linen at all. | A. L. O. E. - The look of the thing and other stories |
But what, my young friends, was the end of all this
washing, and beating, and rending?At length a pure, white, beautiful
sheet of paper lay beneath the manufacturer's hands; into this fair
form had passed the rag which a child had called good for nothing!" "But the sheet was not to lie useless.Not in vain had it been made so
white and clean. It was next carried to the press of a printer.There
it was once more damped, so as better to receive an impression: then
it was laid over blackened type (that is, letters cast in metal), and
pressed down with a heavy roller, until every letter was clearly marked
upon the smooth white surface.God's Holy Word had been stamped upon
it, the sheet was to form a leaf of a Bible; such honour was given to
the once soiled rag, which a child had called good for nothing! ""And where was this Bible to be; to what home and what heart was it
to carry its message of mercy? It was bound, and gilded, and bought,
and carried to the royal palace of the Queen.The Bible lay in the
sovereign's chamber, it was opened by the sovereign's hand; her eye
rested upon it as upon that which was more precious to her than her
crown!What was it to her that a portion of the paper had once been a
worn-out rag dropped by one of the meanest of her subjects?It had been
washed, purified, changed, the Word of God had given it value; well
might the Queen prize and love it as her best possession upon earth. ""Dear friends," continued the lady, looking with loving interest on
the listening groups before her, "can you not, trace out now a little
parable in my story? Need I explain its meaning?There have been some
neglected ones in the world, as little cared for, as little regarded as
the rag which lay on the miry road. But who shall dare to say that even
the soul most stained by sin, most sunk in evil, is good for nothing? ""Such souls may be raised from the dust, such souls have been raised
from the dust. While God spares life we may yet have hope. I have just
read of the case of James Stirling, a faithful servant, an earnest
worker for God.That man for twenty years was a drunkard, a grief to
his wife, a disgrace to his family, an evil example to those around
him. If he, by the power of God's Word, was raised from such a depth
of sin, who now need despair?What if our sins be many before God,
'the blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth from all sin.' The soiled
may be made pure and clean. What did the Saviour say to the weeping
penitent whom all the world despised? 'Thy sins are forgiven thee, go
in peace.' And thus speaks the merciful Lord to the lowly penitent
still." "And when a soul is washed from its guilt, it is not left to be idle
and useless.When God gives to a sinner a new heart, it is that His
Holy Word may be deeply stamped on that heart. Then those who have been
cleansed, forgiven, and raised, bear to others the blessed message
which they themselves have received. 'Come, hear what the Lord has done
for my soul. Come, taste and see that the Lord is gracious;' such are
the Bible words printed, as it were, on the heart of every pardoned
sinner, who, having been forgiven much, feels that he loveth much. ""And once more, dear friends, let me refer to the leaf of the Bible
described in my little story, as a picture of a soul redeemed. It too
will one day be borne to a palace; not the dwelling of an earthly
monarch, but the mansion of the King of kings!Precious will it be
in his eyes, and counted amongst His treasures. Oh, what a joyful,
glorious end may be reserved for some whom the world call good for
nothing, when penitent, pardoned, purified spirits shine as stars in
the kingdom of heaven! "The lady ceased, but her words seemed to echo still in the ears of poor
Rob. He was fixed to the spot where he stood, scarcely conscious of the
bustle around him as the scholars noisily quitted the room.A door of
hope had been suddenly opened before the almost despairing lad, a gleam
of light had fallen on his darkness.Rob Barker had read the history of
his own past life in that of the trampled rag; could a like future be
before him, could he ever be one of the "penitent, pardoned, purified"
ones, who shall shine at last like the stars?The teacher's attention had been attracted by the wretched appearance
and earnest look of the stranger lad.A feeling of interest and pity
made her watch him, as he lingered in that room in which he had first
learned that it was possible for such as he to be saved.As Rob walked
slowly from the place, the lady overtook him, asked his name, and
inquired what had brought him to the Ragged School that morning. "I believe that God brought me," murmured Rob, and his answer came from
his heart. "Where do you live? "said the lady. "I have no home, no friends," replied the lad, in a tone of gloomy
despair. "You are young, you look strong and active, you must never give up
hope," said the teacher; "God is willing and able to help all who come
in faith to Him.Let us see if no way can be found by which you can
earn your bread as an honest Christian should do. "The lady herself did something, perhaps to some it may seem very
little, to aid the poor homeless lad; she had many poor to think of,
many claims on her purse.She gave but a stale roll, an old broom,
and the means of procuring a single night's lodging, together with an
invitation to come every day and learn at the Ragged School. This was
but a small and humble beginning to Rob's new start in life.I am not
going to trace his career through all its various stages.He was the
crossing-sweeper, the errand-boy, the lad ready for any message or any
work, cleaning boots, putting up shutters, carrying parcels to earn a
few pence, or some broken victuals.Life was a struggle to Rob, as it is a struggle to many who, when they
rise in the morning scarcely know where they will lie down at night.But Rob Barker was learning more and more to put his trust in that
heavenly Father who never forsakes His children. He was learning to be
honest, sober, and pious.Gradually the sky brightened over Rob; his
character became known and trusted, and greater prosperity came. Having
sought first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, other things
were added besides, according to the promise of the Lord.Rob entered
service, and rose in it; he remained for nearly twenty years under the
same kind master, then with his honest earnings, set up in business,
and prospered.Rob lived to be known and respected in the world as a
good husband, father, and master.He lived to be useful in the station
of comfort and honour to which God's mercy had raised him, and to look
forward with humble hope and rejoicing to the rest of Paradise and
changeless glories of heaven.Such was the career of one who had once been deemed good for nothing by
a fellow sinner! NEW STORIES
BY
A. L. O. E.
No. 4—HOW LIKE IT IS!NEW YORK:
GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL. | A. L. O. E. - The look of the thing and other stories |
UNION AND CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY. 762 BROADWAY. 1865. HOW LIKE IT IS! "I HOPE, aunt, that you did not mind my knocking up the house at twelve
o'clock last night," said Eddy Burns, as he sat down one Monday morning
to the breakfast which had been kept waiting for him nearly an hour. "I own, my dear boy," replied Mrs. Burns, a gentle looking woman with
silvery hair smoothly braided beneath the whitest of caps, "I must own
that I should much rather have had you going with me to church, and
spending Sunday evening quietly here, than wandering off I know not
where, and never returning till midnight. ""Oh, if I were always living in London it would be different,"
cried Eddy, as he emptied the plate of grilled bacon; "but, you
know, when I'm only up on a visit, I must see all that's to be
seen, and make the most of my time.What a whirl I was in all last
week! sights and shows of all kinds—amusement from morning till
night—hither—thither—everywhere." "Where were you yesterday, Eddy?" asked his aunt. "Well, if the truth must be told, I was off to Brighton by an excursion
train to have a sniff of the sea air, and somehow or other we did not
manage to get back till late. ""I was very uneasy and anxious about you," said Mrs. Burns, in a tone
of gentle reproach. "Oh, I'm sorry that I worried you!" exclaimed Eddy; "you're the best
of good aunts, and I owe more to you I know than to any one else in
the world.I may be a wild, thoughtless young fellow, but I'm not
ungrateful—no; there's nothing I hate like ingratitude!" Mrs. Burns' only answer was a kindly smile.She might have upbraided
Eddy for his selfishness, his want of consideration, his neglect of all
religious duties, but she felt that this was not the time for doing so. "Where are you going to-day?" asked the aunt. "Well, I'm off to the Pantheon to see if my photo is ready," said the
lad. "You did not tell me that you had been sitting for your likeness." "Oh, everybody sits now-a-days," laughed Eddy, "you would not have me
behind the rest of the world.If the photo turn out good you shall have
it, aunt;" and the boy passed his hand through his light brown hair
with a very self-satisfied look, which seemed to say, "I'm sure they'll
make a good picture of a handsome young fellow like me! "Off started Eddy for the Pantheon, not a little curious to see his own
face for the first time on paper. Eddy Burns was by no means free from
personal vanity.He had dressed very carefully for his sitting, put
on his best waist-coat and his bright new studs for the occasion, and
had spent nearly ten minutes in fastening his opera tie.Eddy was now
impatient to see the result of all his dressing and study, and hurried
up the Pantheon staircase with all the eagerness of a child.When he
reached the photograph stall, the youth could not wait until those who
had come before him were served; he pushed himself forward, and kept
demanding his picture as if every moment of his time were precious. "What an age the woman takes in looking over her little packets,"
muttered Eddy. "This is yours," said the person behind the stall, handing a carte de
visite to the impatient lad.Eddy almost snatched it from her hand, and then, drawing back a few
steps, looked at it with angry disappointment, almost tempted to fling
it down on the counter in disgust. "Ugh I what a fright they've made me," growled the youth as he
descended the staircase at a slower pace than he had mounted. "I've
half a mind to toss it into the fire; but I'll show it first to my
aunt, and see what she says of the likeness." About an hour afterwards Eddy entered the parlour of Mrs. Burns. "Have you brought back your likeness, my dear boy?" was the aunt's
first question when she saw him. "Here it is, aunt; what do you think of it? "said Eddy, seating himself
on an easy chair, and drawing the little carte from his pocket.He
watched the face of his aunt as she closely examined the picture, and
rather wondered at the tender expression in her gentle grey eyes, and
the smile which rose to her lips. "How like it is!" was her first exclamation. "I'm surprised that you think so," cried Eddy, rather mortified by her
words; "I did not fancy myself to be so ugly a dog; but I suppose that
no one knows his own face. ""The sun will not flatter," said his aunt with a smile, "he is too
truthful often to please. May I keep your photo?" added Mrs. Burns. "I
shall value it dearly, for it will so remind me of you. ""Oh, you're welcome to keep it, or light the fire with it!" cried Eddy,
"I never wish to see it again.I wonder whether," he continued, half
laughing, "if the sun could draw our characters as he draws our faces
in such a dreadfully truthful way, we should recognise ourselves at
all. ""I rather doubt that we would," said Mrs. Burns, with her eyes
thoughtfully fixed upon the photograph, which, though by no means a
pleasing, was a very faithful likeness of her nephew. "Well, aunt, some time or other you shall play the part of the sun,
and make a photograph of my character.I should like to know what I
really am like, and I've heard that you're so sharp at finding out
all that folk are feeling and thinking, that you'll hit me off to a
hair. "Eddy's eye twinkled as he spoke, and his manner was so careless
and gay that it was clear that he was not much afraid that any very
unfavourable opinion could be formed of himself.Indeed, he considered
himself, on the whole, a very pleasant, kind, good-hearted sort of a
fellow. "You must give me a little time for reflection and observation, Eddy,
before I attempt to take your likeness; and you must not be angry when
I have done if my picture does not flatter. ""Oh, I like plain truth," cried Eddy; "I don't think that you'll have
much worse to say of me than that I like play better than work, and am
always up to a lark." Nothing more was said on the subject at that time.Eddy went out to
some place of amusement, and did not return till the evening. He then
looked heated and flushed, and flung himself down on a chair by his
aunt with an air of indignant displeasure. "He's the most ungrateful dog that ever I met with! "muttered Eddy
between his teeth. "Of whom do you speak?" asked his aunt. "Of Arthur Knox, to be sure; who was my school fellow, and to whom I
lent half my pocket money one quarter—which, by the by, he has never
returned to me.There's no saying how many scrapes I've helped that
Arthur out of, for he was always getting into scrapes. And now—would
you believe it—he passed me to-day in the street as if he had quite
forgotten me. A dead cut, if ever there was one. ""Perhaps he did not see you," suggested Mrs. Burns. "Oh, but he did though," cried Eddy, quickly, "I caught his eye as we
met.But he has lately come in to some money, and that has turned his
head, I suppose; and he was walking with some grandly dressed folk; I
fancy he did not choose they should know that I was an acquaintance
of his. | A. L. O. E. - The look of the thing and other stories |
Oh, I hate ingratitude of all things.A man may be honest,
pleasant, kind—anything that you like, but once show me that he's
ungrateful, and I would not care ever to set eyes upon him again." "Ingratitude is hateful, Eddy, and yet—"
"Oh, don't you try to defend Arthur Knox! "exclaimed the lad, with
increased impatience of manner; "why, I once sat up a whole night to
nurse him, and that's not what every one would do, I can tell you. I
really cared for the fellow, and that makes his conduct the harder to
bear.To cut me dead in the streets! Did you ever know any being so
ungrateful?" "I know a youth," replied Mrs. Burns, "who has, I think, shown himself
to be quite as ungrateful as Arthur." "I can hardly believe it," said Eddy. "You shall hear and judge for yourself. A youth—I need not give you
his name—had incurred a very heavy debt, which no efforts of his own
would ever enable him to pay.There was nothing before him but, utter
ruin, when a friend, who knew and pitied his distress, before he had
even been asked to relieve, came forward and freely offered to pay not
a part only, but the whole of the debt.But the sacrifice was great to
him who made it; the generous Friend who had once been possessed of
great wealth brought himself to poverty and want, and for years endured
the greatest hardships, on account of his kindness to another. ""What wonderful goodness!" cried Eddy. "Nor was this all," continued Mrs. Burns. "The Benefactor adopted
the youth as his son, gave him his own name; provided him with food,
clothing, lodging, all that he really required; and when the lad
was old enough, placed him in a situation in which he would be able
comfortably to earn his living. ""Now that was a friend!" exclaimed Eddy. "And what return did this
youth make for such unheard of kindness?" "I grieve to say," replied Mrs. Burns, "that I believe that the youth
almost entirely forgot the Benefactor to whom he owed everything.His
Friend desired him to come to his house—but that house appeared to
be the very last place which the lad cared to enter. Months, perhaps
years, would pass without his crossing the threshold.Letters received
from his Benefactor were never opened by the youth, he thought it a
weariness even to read them." "What a heartless wretch!" exclaimed Eddy. "He never did any one thing to please the Friend who had paid his debt
at such vast cost, and who had cared for him from childhood.He loved
the company of those who were enemies to his Benefactor; he did not,
indeed, like them, speak openly against him—"
"I should think not," interrupted the indignant Eddy, "it was hateful
enough to forget him. ""Nay, but I have not told you all. You have heard how freely and
lovingly the Friend had bestowed many goods on the youth: he had,
however, as he had a perfect right to do, reserved a portion for
himself.Even this portion he was laying up to increase the future
wealth of his adopted son; but, he forbade the youth, in the mean time,
to do what he pleased with this portion." "No one could complain of that," observed Eddy. "But the youth did complain," said his aunt, "and he did not content
himself with murmurs, he resolved to spend all as he pleased. Against
right, conscience, and gratitude, he wasted on idle follies what his
generous Friend had reserved.Eddy, what say you now to this youth?" "Say?" repeated her nephew, "I say that he is the most ungrateful,
despicable, good for nothing being in the world. Is he living still? ""Living—yes, and not far hence," replied Mrs. Burns, with a glance of
meaning; "is not my photograph like?" "What on earth do you mean?" exclaimed the astonished Eddy, opening his
eyes wide, and fixing them on his aunt. "Is not the likeness that of every soul that forgets and neglects the
greatest of Benefactors—the best and kindest of Friends? Oh, Eddy
what hath God done for us, can we number up a thousandth part of the
benefits received from His love?Think of the heavy debt of sin, that
sin which, unpardoned, is death! Did not the Lord of glory leave the
throne of heaven to live in poverty and want, and then endure the
scourge and the cross, that our heavy debt might be paid?Was not
that the proof of most wonderful love? And think how, from our feeble
infancy, God has watched over, cared for, and blessed us.For the sight
of our eyes, the strength of our limbs, for the faculties of memory and
reason, we have to thank our great Benefactor. For the home in which we
dwell, the food which we eat, the friends whom we love—we must thank
him.For all that we have in this world, and for all that we hope for
in the next, we must bless and praise our Redeemer. "Eddy looked more thoughtful than usual, and, after a pause, his aunt
went on: "And what return do many of us make for all this goodness
and love? What is the conduct of many of those who bear the name
of Christians?Do they care to please the Lord, or only to please
themselves? When God invites them to His house of prayer, do they not
neglect his invitation, and prefer any place of amusement?Would they
not rather read any light book than the Bible, which is the word of
God, and contains His gracious message?And to mention but one thing
more, that precious portion of time, the Lord's Day, which God has
reserved in His wisdom to be an especial blessing to the soul, the time
which he commands us to hallow—do not many rob him of it lot their own
purposes; their business, their trade, their amusement?If ingratitude
be hateful towards man—oh, what must it be towards God!" "Aunt, you are hard upon me," said Eddy. "Since you take the picture for yourself, dear boy, I can only say—Is | A. L. O. E. - The look of the thing and other stories |
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
ONE MILLION FOUR HUNDRED NINETY TWO THOUSAND
SIX HUNDRED THIRTY THREE MARLON BRANDOS
BY VANCE AANDAHL
She liked the Brando type.The
more there was of it, the better! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Chester McRae. Good old Chet, best man in Accounting. Six feet tall,
brown hair, brown eyes.Full of vim and vigor, that was good old Chet. "God!" he screamed. "They're strangling me, the skunks!" He rose from
bed, his face dripping with sweat and his hands trembling like a
frightened child's. "They're killing me! "He ran to the bathroom and
vomited. His wife was standing by the door when he finished, but he
walked past her as if she didn't exist. "Why, Chester! What's the matter with you?" she asked, trailing him
into the bedroom. "I've never heard you talk like that before!" For a
moment she stood watching him in numb silence. "For goodness' sake,
Chester, why are you getting dressed at three o'clock in the morning? ""None of your business," he mumbled, setting a firm upper lip and
gazing at her with lizard-cold Marlon Brando eyes. He picked up his
tie, laughed at it with careless ease and threw it across the room. "See you around, baby," he hissed, zipping up his trousers and walking
past her. "Chester McRae! Where are you going at this time of night? You've got
to go to work tomorrow! Don't you love me any more?Chester...."
But her words echoed emptily through Chester McRae's pleasant little
suburban home. Chester was no longer present. * * * * *
Bartholomew Oliver.Good old Barth, best man on a duck hunt since
the guy who invented shotguns. Five foot ten, weak chin, gambler's
mustache. Good man with small-town girls, too. "Hey, Thelma," he said. "You know what I think?" "Go to sleep. ""I think it'd be funnier than hell if I left you flat." "What kind of wisecrack is that? And what do you think you're doing?" "I'm getting dressed...."
"It's three o'clock in the morning." "So? I don't give a damn." "You'll come back. Drunken louse. "He laughed softly and smiled at her in the darkness with ice-white
Marlon Brando teeth. Then he was gone. * * * * *
Oswald Williams. Good old Ozzie, best man in the whole philosophy
department.Five foot two, one hundred and seven pounds, milky eyes. Wrote an outstanding paper on the inherent fallacies of logical
positivism. "Louise," he whispered, "I feel uneasy. Very uneasy." His wife lifted her fatty head and gazed happily down at Oswald. "Go to
sleep," she said. "If you'll excuse me, I think that I shall take a walk." "But, Oswald, it's three o'clock in the morning!" "Don't be irrational," he whispered. "If I want to take a walk, I shall
take a walk." "Well!I don't think you ought to, or you might catch a cold." He rose and dressed, donning a tee-shirt and tweed trousers. With
snake-swift Marlon Brando hands, he tossed his plaid scarf in her face. "Excuse me, Louise," he whispered, "but I gotta make it...."
Then, laughing softly, he strode from the room. * * * * *
At three o'clock in the morning, even a large city is quiet and dark
and almost dead.At times, the city twitches in its sleep; occasionally
it rolls over or mutters to itself. But only rarely is its slumber
shattered by a scream....
"Johnny! Hey, Johnny!" cries Chester McRae, his eyes as dull and
poisonous as two tiny toads. "Let's make it, man ... let's split...." whispers Bartholomew Oliver,
one finger brushing his nose like a rattler nosing a dead mouse. "I don make no move without my boys," says Oswald Williams, his hands
curled like scorpion tails.Together they walk down the street, moving with slow insolence,
their lips curled in snarls or slack with indifference, their eyes
glittering with hidden hatreds. But they are not alone in the city.The college boys are coming, in their dirty jeans and beer-stained
tee-shirts; so too are the lawyers, in dusty jackets and leather pants;
so come the doctors and the businessmen, on stolen motorcycles; the
bricklayers and gas station attendants, the beatniks and dope pushers,
the bankers and lifesaving instructors, the butchers, the bakers, the
candlestick makers... they are all coming, flocking into the city for
reasons not their own, wandering in twos and threes and twenties, all
of them sullen and quiet, all of them shuffling beneath darkly-hued
clouds of ill intent, all of them proud and deadly and virile, filling
the streets by the thousands now, turning the streets into rivers of
flesh....
"Hey, Johnny," says Chester, "let's cool this dump. ""Man, let's make it with the skirts," says Bartholomew. "I don see no skirts," says Chester. "You pig," snarls Ozzie.The mob is monstrous now, like a pride of lion cubs, beyond count in
their number, without equal in their leonine strength, above the common
quick in their immortal pride, milling through the hot black veldt,
swarming in the city streets.Millions of them, more than the eye can
see or the mind can bear. It seems that no man sleeps, that every male
in the great city must walk tonight. "Johnny," says Chester, "I don dig no chicks on the turf." "Eeee, colay.What a drag," whispers Bartholomew. "You goddam logical positivist," snarls Ozzie. * * * * *
An uneasy sound ripples through the mob, like the angry hiss of an
injured ego, moving from street to street and swelling upward in a
sudden, angry roar ... they want their women, the dance-hall girls,
the young waitresses, the nowhere chicks in five dollar dresses,
the Spanish girls with eyes as dark as the Spanish night.And then,
as though by accident, one man looks up at the starry sky and sees
_her_--sees her standing on a balcony far above them, twenty stories
above them, up where the wind can blow her hair and billow her blue
dress like an orchid of the night.She laughs gently, without fear, gazing down at the mindless mob of
rebels. They laugh too, just as gently, their quiet eyes crawling over the
sight of her body, far above. "Thass my chick," whispers Chester. "Cool it, daddy," says Bartholomew, slipping into a pair of dark
glasses and touching his lips with the tip of his tongue. "That skirt
is private property." "You boys may walk and talk," says Ozzie, "but you don play. You don
play with Rio's girl. "Suddenly, angry words and clenched fists erupt from the proud, quiet
millions that flood the streets. Suddenly, a roar like the roar of
lions rises up and buffets the girl in blue, the girl on the balcony.She laughs again, for she knows that they are fighting for her. A figure appears on the balcony, next to the girl. | Aandahl, Vance - 1,492,633 Marlon Brandos |
The figure is a man,
and he too is dressed in blue. Suddenly, just as suddenly as it began,
the fighting ceases. "My God," whispers Chester, his cheeks gone pale, "what am I doing out
here?" "Maybe I got the D.T.s," whispers Bartholomew, "but maybe I don't...."
He sits down on the curb and rubs his head in disbelief. Oswald does not speak.His shame is the greatest. He slinks into the
darkness of an alley and briefly wishes for an overcoat.The pride of lion cubs has been routed, and now they scatter, each one
scrambling for his private den of security, each one lost in a wild and
nameless fear.In twos and threes and twenties they rush back to their
homes, their wives, their endless lives. Far above, in the apartment with the balcony, a man in blue is chiding
a girl in blue. "That was scarcely reasonable, Dorothy. ""But Daddy, you promised to let me have them for the entire night!" "Yes, but...."
"I wasn't really going to let them hurt themselves! Really, I wasn't!" "But, Dorothy--you know these things can get out of hand. ""Oh, but Daddy, you know how I adore strong, quiet, proud men. Rebellious men like Marlon." "Yes, and you know how _I_ adore order and peace. There shall be _no_
more riots!And tomorrow our little puppets shall go back to their
'dull' lives, as you so wittily put it, and everything shall be as I
wish. "* * * * *
Three hours later, Chester McRae arose at the sound of the alarm,
dressed in a stupor and stumbled into his kitchen for breakfast. "My goodness, Chester," said his wife, who had already arisen, "you
look grouchier than usual! Ha, ha!" He smiled wanly and opened the morning paper.Halfway across town, Bartholomew Oliver was still asleep, casually lost
in the pleasures of an erotic dream.But Professor Oswald Williams, his
tiny jaw unshaven and his eager eyes shot through with fatigue, had
been hard at work for three hours, scribbling down his latest exposure
of the logical positivists. | Aandahl, Vance - 1,492,633 Marlon Brandos |
Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.Freudian Slip
By FRANKLIN ABEL
Illustrated by HARRINGTON
Things are exactly what they seem? Life is real? Life is
earnest? Well, that depends. * * * * *
On the day the Earth vanished, Herman Raye was earnestly fishing for
trout, hip-deep in a mountain stream in upstate New York.Herman was a tall, serious, sensitive, healthy, well-muscled young man
with an outsize jaw and a brush of red-brown hair. He wore spectacles
to correct a slight hyperopia, and they had heavy black rims because
he knew his patients expected it.In his off hours, he was fond of
books with titles like _Personality and the Behavior Disorders_,
_Self-esteem and Sexuality in Women_, _Juvenile Totem and Taboo: A
study of adolescent culture-groups_, and _A New Theory of Economic
Cycles_; but he also liked baseball, beer and bebop.This day, the last of Herman's vacation, was a perfect specimen: sunny
and still, the sky dotted with antiseptic tufts of cloud. The trout
were biting.Herman had two in his creel, and was casting into the
shallow pool across the stream in the confident hope of getting
another, when the Universe gave one horrible sliding lurch.Herman braced himself instinctively, shock pounding through his body,
and looked down at the pebbly stream-bed under his feet. It wasn't there.He was standing, to all appearances, in three feet of clear water with
sheer, black nothing under it: nothing, the abysmal color of a
moonless night, pierced by the diamond points of a half-dozen
incredible stars.He had only that single glimpse; then he found himself gazing across
at the pool under the far bank, whose waters reflected the tranquil
imagery of trees.He raised his casting rod, swung it back over his
shoulder, brought it forward again with a practiced flick of his
wrist, and watched the lure drop.Within the range of his vision now, everything was entirely normal;
nevertheless, Herman wanted very much to stop fishing and look down to
see if that horrifying void was still there. He couldn't do it. Doggedly, he tried again and again.The result was always the same. It
was exactly as if he were a man who had made up his mind to fling
himself over a cliff, or break a window and snatch a loaf of bread, or
say in a loud voice to an important person at a party, "I think you
stink. "Determination was followed by effort, by ghastly, sweating,
heart-stopping fear, by relief as he gave up and did something else. _All right_, he thought finally, _there's no point going on with it_._Data established: hallucination, compulsion, inhibition._ _Where do
we go from here?_
The obvious first hypothesis was that he was insane. Herman considered
that briefly, and left the question open.Three or four selected
psychoanalyst jokes paraded through his mind, led by the classic,
"You're fine, how am I? "There was this much truth, he thought, in the popular belief that all
analysts were a little cracked themselves: a good proportion of the
people who get all the way through the man-killing course that makes
an orthodox analyst--a course in which an M.D.degree is only a
beginning--are impelled to do so in the first place by a consuming
interest in their own neuroses.Herman, for example, from the age of
fifteen up until the completion of his own analysis at twenty-six, had
been so claustrophobic that he couldn't force himself into a subway
car or an elevator. But was he now insane? Can a foot-rule measure itself?Herman finished. At an appropriate hour he waded ashore, cleaned his
catch, cooked it and ate it. Where the ground had been bare around his
cooking spot, he saw empty darkness, star-studded, rimmed by a tangled
webwork of bare rootlets.He tried to go on looking at it when he had
finished eating the fish. He couldn't. After the meal, he tried to take out his notebook and pen. He
couldn't.In fact, it occurred to him, _he was helpless to do anything that he
wouldn't normally have done_. Pondering that discovery, after he had cleaned his utensils and
finished his other chores, Herman crawled into his tent and went to
sleep.Burying the garbage had been an unsettling experience.Like a lunatic
building a machine nobody else can see, he had lifted successive
shovels-full of nothing, dropped the empty cans and rubbish ten inches
into nothing, and shoveled nothing carefully over them again....
* * * * *
The light woke him, long before dawn.From where he lay on his back,
he could see an incredible pale radiance streaming upward all around
him, outlining the shadow of his body at the ridge of the tent,
picking out the under-surfaces of the trees against the night sky.He
strained, until he was weak and dizzy, to roll over so that he could
see its source; but he had to give up and wait another ten minutes
until his body turned "naturally," just as if he had still been
asleep.Then he was looking straight down into a milky transparency that
started under his nose and continued into unguessable depths.First
came the matted clumps of grass, black against the light, every blade
and root as clear as if they had been set in transparent plastic. Then
longer, writhing roots of trees and shrubs, sprouting thickets of
hair-thin rootlets.Between these, and continuing downward level by
level, was spread an infinity of tiny specks, seed-shapes, spores. Some of them moved, Herman realized with a shock. Insects burrowing
in the emptiness where the Earth should be?In the morning, when he crawled out of the tent and went to the
bottomless stream to wash, he noticed something he had missed the day
before. The network of grasses gave springily under his feet--not like
turf, but like stretched rubber.Herman conceived an instant dislike
for walking, especially when he had to cross bare ground, because when
that happened, he felt exactly what he saw: nothing whatever
underfoot. "Walking on air," he realized, was not as pleasant an
experience as the popular songs would lead you to expect. Herman shaved, cooked and ate breakfast, washed the dishes, did the
chores, and packed up his belongings.With a mighty effort, he pried
out the tent stakes, which were bedded in nothing but a loose network
of roots. He shouldered the load and carried it a quarter of a mile
through pine woods to his car.The car stood at ground level, but the ground was not there any more. The road was now nothing more than a long, irregular trough formed by
the spreading roots of the pines on either side.Shuddering, Herman
stowed his gear in the trunk and got in behind the wheel. When he put the motor into gear, the sedan moved sedately and normally
forward. | Abel, Franklin - Freudian Slip |
But the motor raced madly, and there was no feeling that it
was taking hold.With screaming engine, Herman drove homeward over a
nonexistent road. Inwardly and silently, he gibbered. Six miles down the mountain, he pulled up beside a white-painted fence
enclosing a neat yard and a fussy little blue-shuttered house.On the
opposite side of the fence stood a middle-aged woman with a floppy hat
awry on her head and a gardening trowel in one of her gloved hands. She looked up with an air of vague dismay when he got out of the car. "Some more eggs today, Dr. Raye? "she asked, and smiled. The smile was
like painted china. Her eyes, lost in her fleshy face, were clearly
trying not to look downward. "Not today, Mrs. Richards," Herman said. "I just stopped to say
good-by. I'm on my way home." "Isn't that a shame? "she said mechanically. "Well, come again next
year." Herman wanted to say, "Next year I'll probably be in a strait-jacket." He tried to say it. He stuttered, "N-n-n-n--" and ended, glancing at
the ground at her feet, "Transplanting some petunias? "The woman's mouth worked. She said, "Yes. I thought I might's well put
them along here, where they'd get more sun. Aren't they pretty?" "Very pretty," said Herman helplessly.The petunias, roots as naked as if they had been scrubbed, were
nesting in a bed of stars. Mrs. Richards' gloves and trowel were
spotlessly clean. * * * * *
On Fourth Avenue, below Fourteenth Street, Herman met two frightful
little men. He had expected the city to be better, but it was worse; it was a
nightmare.The avenues between the buildings were bottomless troughs
of darkness. The bedrock was gone; the concrete was gone; the asphalt
was gone. The buildings themselves were hardly recognizable unless you knew what
they were.New York had been a city of stone--built on stone, built of
stone, as cold as stone. Uptown, the city looked half-built, but insanely occupied, a forest of
orange-painted girders. In the Village the old brick houses were
worse.No brick; no mortar; nothing but the grotesque shells of rooms
in lath and a paper-thickness of paint. The wrought-iron railings were gone, too.On Fourth Avenue, bookseller's row, you could almost persuade yourself
that nothing had happened, provided you did not look down. The
buildings had been made of wood, and wood they remained.The
second-hand books in their wooden racks would have been comforting
except that they were so clean. There was not a spot of dirt anywhere;
the air was more than country-pure. There was an insane selective principle at work here, Herman realized.Everything from bedrock to loam that belonged to the Earth itself had
disappeared.So had everything that had a mineral origin and been
changed by refinement and mixture: concrete, wrought iron, brick, but
steel and glass, porcelain and paint remained.It looked as if the
planet had been the joint property of two children, one of whom didn't
want to play any more, so they had split up their possessions--this is
yours, this is yours, this is _mine_....The two little men popped into view not six feet in front of Herman as
he was passing a sidewalk bookstall. Both were dressed in what looked
like workmen's overalls made of lucite chain-mail, or knitted
glow-worms.One of them had four eyes, two brown, two blue, with
spectacles for the middle pair. Ears grew like cabbages all over his
bald head.The other had two eyes, the pupils of which were
cross-shaped, and no other discernible features except when he opened
his gap-toothed mouth: the rest of his head, face and all, was
completely covered by a dense forest of red hair.As they came forward, Herman's control of his body suddenly returned. He was trying his best to turn around and go away from there, and that
was what his body started to do.Moreover, certain sounds of a
prayerful character, namely "Oh dear sweet Jesus," which Herman was
forming in his mind, involuntarily issued from his lips.Before he had taken the first step in a rearward direction, however,
the hairy little man curved around him in a blur of motion, barring
the way with two long, muscular, red-furred arms. Herman turned. The
four-eyed little man had closed in.Herman, gasping, backed up against
the bookstall.People who were headed directly for them, although showing no
recognition that Herman and the little men were there, moved stiffly
aside like dancing automatons, strode past, then made another stiff
sidewise motion to bring them back to the original line of march
before they went on their way. "Olaph dzenn Härm Rai gjo glerr-dregnarr?" demanded Hairy. Herman gulped, half-stunned. "Huh?" he said. Hairy turned to Four-Eyes. "Grinnr alaz harisi nuya." "Izzred alph! Meggi erd-halaza riggbörd els kamma gredyik. Lukhhal! "Hairy turned back to Herman. Blinking his eyes rapidly, for they
closed like the shutter of a camera, he made a placating gesture with
both huge furry hands. "Kelagg ikri odrum faz," he said, and, reaching
out to the bookstall, he plucked out a handful of volumes, fanned them
like playing cards and displayed them to Four-Eyes.A heated
discussion ensued, at the end of which Hairy kept _For Whom the Bell
Tolls_, Four-Eyes took _The Blonde in the Bathtub_, and Hairy threw
the rest away.Then, while Herman gaped and made retching sounds, the two disgusting
little men tore pages out of the books and stuffed them in their
mouths. When they finished the pages, they ate the bindings.Then
there was a rather sick pause while they seemed to digest the contents
of the books they had literally devoured. Herman had the wild thought
that they were blurb writers whose jobs had gone to their heads.The one with the four eyes rolled three of them horribly. "That's more
like it," he said in nasal but recognizable English. "Let's start
over. Are you Herman Raye, the skull doc?" Herman produced a series of incoherent sounds. "My brother expresses himself crudely," said Hairy in a rich, fruity
baritone. "Please forgive him. He is a man of much heart." "Uh?" said Herman. "Truly," said Hairy. "And of much ears," he added with a glance at his
companion. "But again, as to this affair--tell me true, are you Herman
Raye, the analyst of minds?" "Suppose I am?" Herman asked cautiously. Hairy turned to Four-eyes. "Arghraz iktri 'Suppose I am,' Gurh?Olaph
iktri erz ogromat, lekh--"
"Talk English, can't you?" Four-eyes broke in. "You know he don't
understand that caveman jabber. Anyhow, yeah, yeah, it's him. He just
don't want to say so." He reached out and took Herman by the collar. "Come on, boy, the boss is waitin'." There were two circular hair-lines of glowing crimson where Hairy and
Four-eyes had originally appeared. They reached the spot in one jump,
Hairy bringing up the rear. "But tell me truly," he said anxiously. "You _are_ that same Herman
Raye?" Herman paid no attention. | Abel, Franklin - Freudian Slip |
Below, under the two glowing circles, was
the terrifying gulf that had replaced the Earth; and this time, Herman
was somehow convinced, it was not going to hold him up. "Let go! "he shouted, struggling. "Ouch!" He had struck Four-eyes
squarely on the flat nose, and it felt as if he had slugged an anvil.Paying no attention, Four-eyes turned Herman over, pinned his arms to
his sides, and dropped him neatly through the larger of the two
circles. Herman shut his eyes tightly and despairingly repeated the
multiplication table up to 14 x 14.When he opened them again, he was
apparently hanging in mid-space, with Hairy to his left and Four-eyes
to his right. The visible globe around them was so curiously tinted
and mottled that it took Herman a long time to puzzle it out.Ahead of
them was the darkest area--the void he had seen before. This was oval
in shape, and in places the stars shone through it clearly. In others,
they were blocked off entirely or dimmed by a sort of haze.Surrounding this, and forming the rest of the sphere, was an area that
shaded from gold shot with violet at the borders, to an unbearable
blaze of glory at the center, back the way they had come and a little
to the right.Within this lighted section were other amorphous areas
which were much darker, almost opaque; and still others where the
light shone through diluted to a ruddy ghost of itself, like
candlelight through parchment.Gradually Herman realized that the shapes and colors he saw were the
lighted and dark hemispheres of Earth.The dark areas were the oceans,
deep enough in most places to shut out the light altogether, and those
parts of the continents, North and South America behind him, Europe
and Asia ahead, Africa down to the right, which were heavily forested.Herman's earlier conviction returned. Things like this just did not
happen. _Physician, heal thyself!_
"You're not real," he said bitterly to Four-eyes. "Not very," Four-eyes agreed. "I'm twice as real as that jerk,
though," he insisted, pointing to Hairy. Ahead of them, or "below," a point of orange light was slowly
swelling. Herman watched it without much interest. Hairy broke out into a torrent of cursing. "I this and that in the
milk of your this!" he said. "I this, that and the other in the this
of your that. Your sister! Your cousin! Your grandmother's uncle!" Four-eyes listened with awed approval. "Them was good books, hah?" he
asked happily. "Better than those scratchings in the caves," Hairy said. "Something to think about till they haul us out again. Well," said
Four-eyes philosophically, "here we are. "* * * * *
The orange spot had enlarged into the semblance of a lighted room,
rather like a stage setting. Inside were two enormous Persons, one
sitting, one standing.Otherwise, and except for three upholstered
chairs, the room was bare. No--as they swooped down toward it, Herman
blinked and looked again. A leather couch had appeared against the far
wall.At the last moment, there was a flicker of motion off to Herman's
left.Something that looked like a short, pudgy human being
accompanied by two little men the size of Hairy and Four-eyes whooshed
off into the distance, back toward the surface of the planet. Herman landed.Hairy and Four-eyes, after bowing low to the standing
Person, turned and leaped out of the room. When Herman, feeling
abandoned, turned to see where they had gone, he discovered that the
room now had four walls and no windows or doors.The Person said, "How do you do, Doctor Raye?" Herman looked at him. Although his figure had a disquieting tendency
to quiver and flow, so that it was hard to judge, he seemed to be
about eight feet tall.He was dressed in what would have seemed an
ordinary dark-blue business suit, with an equally ordinary white shirt
and blue tie, except that all three garments had the sheen of polished
metal.His face was bony and severe, but not repellently so; he looked
absent-minded rather than stern. The other Person, whose suit was brown, had a broad, kindly and rather
stupid face; his hair was white.He sat quietly, not looking at
Herman, or, apparently, at anything else. Herman sat down in one of the upholstered chairs. "All right," he said
with helpless defiance. "What's it all about? ""I'm glad we can come to the point at once," said the Person. He
paused, moving his lips silently. "Ah, excuse me. I'm sorry." A second
head, with identical features, popped into view next to the first. His
eyes were closed. "It's necessary, I'm afraid," said head number one
apologetically. "I have so much to remember, you know." Herman took a deep breath and said nothing. "You may call me Secundus, if you like," resumed the Person, "and this
gentleman Primus, since it is with him that you will have principally
to deal.Now, our problem here is one of amnesia, and I will confess
to you frankly that we ourselves are totally inadequate to cope with
it.In theory, we are not subject to disorders of the mind, and that's
what makes us so vulnerable now that it has happened. Do you see?" A fantastic suspicion crept into Herman's mind. "Just a moment," he
said carefully. "If you don't mind telling me, what is it that you
have to remember?" "Well, Doctor, my field is human beings; that's why it became my duty
to search you out and consult with you.And there _is_ a great deal
for me to carry in my mind, you know, especially under these abnormal
conditions. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say it is a
full-time job. ""Are you going to tell me," asked Herman, more carefully still, "that
this--gentleman--is the one who is supposed to remember the Earth
itself? The rocks and minerals and so on?" "Yes, exactly.I was about to tell you--"
"And that the planet has disappeared because he has amnesia?" Herman
demanded on a rising note. Secundus beamed. "Concisely expressed.I myself, being, so to speak,
saturated with the thoughts and habits of human beings, who are, you
must admit, a garrulous race, could not--"
"Oh, no!" said Herman. "Oh, yes," Secundus corrected. "I can understand that the idea is
difficult for you to accept, since you naturally believe that you
yourself have a real existence, or, to be more precise, that you
belong to the world of phenomena as opposed to that of noumena." He
beamed. "Now I will be silent, a considerable task for me, and let you
ask questions." Herman fought a successful battle with his impulse to stand Up and
shout "To hell with it!" He had been through a great deal, but he was
a serious and realistic young man.He set himself to think the problem
through logically.If, as seemed more than probable, Secundus, Primus,
Hairy, Four-eyes, and this whole Alice-in-Wonderland situation existed
only as his hallucinations, then it did not matter much whether he
took them seriously or not.If they were real, then he wasn't, and
vice versa. It didn't make any difference which was which. He relaxed deliberately and folded his hands against his abdomen. | Abel, Franklin - Freudian Slip |
"Let
me see if I can get this clear," he said. "I'm a noumenon, not a
phenomenon.In cruder terms, I exist only in your mind. Is that true?" Secundus beamed. "Correct." "If _you_ got amnesia, I and the rest of the human race would
disappear. "Secundus looked worried, "That is also correct, and if that should
happen, you will readily understand that we _would_ be in difficulty. The situation is extremely--But pardon me. I had promised to be silent
except when answering questions. ""This is the part I fail to understand, Mr. Secundus. I gather that
you brought me here to treat Mr. Primus. Now, if I exist as a thought
in your mind, you necessarily know everything I know. Why don't you
treat him yourself? "Secundus shook his head disapprovingly. "Oh, no, Dr. Raye, that is not
the case at all. It cannot be said that I _know_ everything that you
know; rather we should say that I _remember_ you.In other words, that
I maintain your existence by an act of memory. The two functions,
knowledge and memory, are not identical, although, of course, the
second cannot be considered to exist without the first.But before we
become entangled in our own terms, I should perhaps remind you that
when I employ the word 'memory' I am only making use of a convenient
approximation.Perhaps it would be helpful to say that my memory is
comparable to the structure-memory of a living organism, although
that, too, has certain semantic disadvantages. Were you about to make
a remark, Doctor? ""It still seems to me," Herman said stubbornly, "that if you remember
me, structurally or otherwise, that includes everything I remember.If
you're going to tell me that you remember human knowledge, including
Freudian theory and practice, but are unable to manipulate it, that
seems to me to be contradicted by internal evidence in what you've
already said.For example, it's clear that in the field of
epistemology--the knowledge of knowledge, you might say--you have the
knowledge _and_ manipulate it." "Ah," said Secundus, smiling shyly, "but, you see, that happens to be
my line.Psychoanalysis and psychotherapy, being specializations, are
not. As I mentioned previously, persons of our order are theoretically
not capable of psychic deterioration. That is why we come to you, Dr.
Raye.We are unable to help ourselves; we ask your help. We place
ourselves unreservedly in your hands." The question, "How was I chosen?" occurred to Herman, but he left it
unasked.He knew that the answer was much likelier to be, "At random,"
than, "Because we wanted the most brilliant and talented psychoanalyst
on the planet." "I gather that I'm not the first person you've tried," he said. "Oh, you saw Dr. Buddolphson departing? Yes, it is true that in our
ignorance of the subject we did not immediately turn to practitioners
of your psychological orientation.In fact, if you will not be
offended, I may say that you are practically our last hope.We have
already had one eminent gentleman whose method was simply to talk over
Mr. Primus's problems with him and endeavor to help him reach an
adjustment; he failed because Mr. Primus, so far as he is aware, has
no problems except that he has lost his memory.Then we had another
whose system, as he explained it to me, was simply to repeat, in a
sympathetic manner, everything that the patient said to him; Mr.
Primus was not sufficiently prolix for this method to be of avail. "Then there was another who wished to treat Mr. Primus by encouraging
him to relive his past experiences: 'taking him back along the
time-track,' as he called it; but--" Secundus looked mournful--"Mr.
Primus has actually _had_ no experiences in the usual sense of the
term, though he very obligingly made up a number of them.Our
ontogeny, Dr. Raye, is so simple that it can scarcely be said to
exist at all. Each of us normally has only one function, the one I
have already mentioned, and, until this occurrence, it has always been
fulfilled successfully. "We also had a man who proposed to reawaken Mr. Primus's memory by
electric shock, but Mr. Primus is quite impervious to currents of
electricity and we were unable to hit upon an acceptable substitute.In short, Dr. Raye, if you should prove unable to help us, we will
have no one left to fall back upon except, possibly, the Yogi." "They might do you more good, at that," Herman said, looking at Mr. Primus. "Well, I'll do what I can, though the function of analysis is
to get the patient to accept reality, and this is the opposite.What
can you tell me, to begin with, about Mr. Primus's personality, the
onset of the disturbance, and so on--and, in particular, what are you
two? Who's your boss? What's it all for and how does it work? "Secundus said, "I can give you very little assistance, I am afraid. I
would characterize Primus as a very steady person, extremely accurate
in his work, but not very imaginative.His memory loss occurred
abruptly, as you yourself witnessed yesterday afternoon. As to your
other questions--forgive me, Dr. Raye, but it is to your own advantage
if I fail to answer them.I am, of course, the merest amateur in
psychology, but I sincerely feel that your own psyche might be damaged
if you were to learn the fragment of the truth which I could give
you." He paused.A sheaf of papers, which Herman had not noticed before, lay
on a small table that he had not noticed, either. Secundus picked them
up and handed them over. "Here are testing materials," he said. "If you need anything else, you
have only to call on me.But I trust you will find these complete." He turned to go. "And one more thing, Dr. Raye," he said with an
apologetic smile. "_Hurry_, if you possibly can. "* * * * *
Primus, looking rather like a sarcophagus ornament, lay limply supine
on the ten-foot couch, arms at his sides, eyes closed.When Herman had
first told him to relax, Primus had had to have the word carefully
explained to him; from then on he had done it--or seemed to do
it--perfectly.In his preliminary tests, the Binet, the Minnesota Multiphasic
Personality Index and the Berneuter P.I., he had drawn almost a
complete blank. Standard testing methods did not work on Mr. Primus,
and the reason was obvious enough.Mr. Primus simply was not a human
being. This room, no doubt, was an illusion, and so was Mr. Primus's
anthropomorphic appearance....
Herman felt like a surgeon trying to operate blindfolded while wearing
a catcher's mitt on each hand.But he kept trying; he was getting
results, though whether or not they meant anything, he was unable to
guess. On the Rorschach they had done a little better, at least in volume of
response. "That looks like a cliff," Primus would say eagerly. "That
looks like a--piece of sandstone. This part looks like two volcanoes
and a cave." Of course, Herman realized, the poor old gentleman was
only trying to please him.He had no more idea than a goldfish what a
volcano or a rock looked like, but he wanted desperately to help. | Abel, Franklin - Freudian Slip |
Even so, it was possible to score the results.According to Herman's
interpretation, Primus was a case of arrested infantile sexualism,
with traces of conversion hysteria and a strong Oedipus complex. Herman entered the protocol solemnly in his notes and kept going.Next came free association, and, after that, recounting of dreams. Feeling that he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, Herman
carefully explained to Primus what "sleep" and "dreams" were.Primus had promised to do his best; he had been lying there now,
without moving, for--how long? Startled, Herman looked at his watch. It had stopped.Scoring the Rorschach alone, Herman realized suddenly, should have
taken him nearly a full day, even considering the fact that he hadn't
eaten anything, or taken time out to rest, or--Herman bewilderedly
felt his jaw.There was only the slightest stubble. He didn't feel
hungry or tired, or cramped from sitting.... "Secundus!" he called. A door opened in the wall to his right, and Secundus stepped through. The door disappeared. "Yes, Dr. Raye? Is anything wrong? ""How long have I been here?" Secundus' right-hand head looked embarrassed. "Well, Doctor, without
bringing in the difficult questions of absolute versus relative
duration, and the definition of an arbitrary position--"
"Don't stall.How long have I been here in my own subjective time?" "Well, I was about to say, without being unnecessarily inclusive, the
question is still very difficult.However, bearing in mind that the
answer is only a rough approximation--about one hundred hours." Herman rubbed his chin. "I don't like your tampering with me," he said
slowly. "You've speeded me up--is that it?And at the same time
inhibited my fatigue reactions, and God knows what else, so that I
didn't even notice I'd been working longer than I normally could until
just now?" Secundus looked distressed. "I'm afraid I have made rather a botch of
it, Dr. Raye. I should not have allowed you to notice at all, but it
is growing increasingly difficult to restrain your fellow-creatures to
their ordinary routines. My attention strayed, I am sorry to say. "He
glanced at the recumbent form of Primus. "My word! What is Mr. Primus
doing, Dr. Raye?" "Sleeping," Herman answered curtly. "Remarkable! I hope he does not make a habit of it. Will he awaken
soon, do you think, Doctor? ""I have no idea," said Herman helplessly; but at that moment Primus
stirred, opened his eyes, and sat up with his usual vague, kindly
smile. "Did you dream?" Herman asked him. Primus blinked slowly. "Yes.Yes, I did," he said in his profoundly
heavy voice. "Tell me all you can remember about it." "Well," said Primus, sinking back onto the couch, "I dreamed I was in
a room with a large bed. It had heavy wooden posts and a big bolster.I wanted to lie down and rest in the bed, but the bolster made me
uncomfortable.It was too dark to see, to rearrange the bed, so I
tried to light a candle, but the matches kept going out...."
Herman took it all down, word for word, with growing excitement and
growing dismay. The dream was too good.It might have come out of Dr.
Freud's original case histories. When Primus had finished, Herman
searched back through his notes. Did Primus _know_ what a bed was, or
what a bolster was, or a candle? How much had Herman told him? "Bed" was there, of course. Primus: "What are 'dreams?'" Herman:
"Well, when a human being goes to bed, and sleeps...." "Bolster" was
there, too, but not in the same sense.Herman: "To bolster its
argument, the unconscious--what we call the id--frequently alters the
person's likes and dislikes on what seem to be petty and commonplace
subjects...." And "candle? "Herman: "I want you to understand that I
don't know all about this subject myself, Mr. Primus. Nobody does; our
knowledge is just a candle in the darkness...."
Herman gave up. He glanced at Secundus, who was watching him
expectantly. "May I talk to you privately?" "Of course." Secundus nodded to Primus, who stood up awkwardly and
then vanished with a _pop_. Secundus tut-tutted regretfully. Herman took a firm grip on himself. "Look," he said, "the data I have
now suggest that Primus had some traumatic experience in his infancy
which arrested his development in various ways and also strengthened
his Oedipus complex--that is, intensified his feelings of fear, hatred
and rivalry toward his father.Now, that may sound to you as if we're
making some progress. I would feel that way myself--if I had the
slightest reason for believing that Primus ever had a father." Secundus started to speak; but Herman cut him off. "Wait, let me
finish.I can go ahead on that basis, but as far as I'm concerned I
might just as well be counting the angels on the head of a pin. You've
got to give me more information, Secundus.I want to know who you are,
and who Primus is, and whether there's any other being with whom
Primus could possibly have a filial relationship.And if you can't
tell me all that without giving me the Secret of the Universe, then
you'd better give it to me whether it's good for me or not. I can't
work in the dark." Secundus pursed his lips. "There is justice in what you say, Doctor.Very well, I shall be entirely frank with you--in so far as it is
possible for me to do so of course. Let's see, where can I begin?" "First question," retorted Herman. "Who are you? ""We are--" Secundus thought a moment, then spread his hands with a
helpless smile. "There are no words, Doctor.To put the case in
negatives, we are not evolved organisms, we are not mortal, we are
not, speaking in the usual sense, alive, although, of course--I hope
you will not be offended--neither are you." Herman's brow wrinkled. "Are you _real_? "he demanded finally. Secundus looked embarrassed. "You have found me out, Dr. Raye. I
endeavored to give you that impression--through vanity, I am ashamed
to say--but, unhappily, it is not true. I, too, belong to the realm of
noumena. ""Then, blast it all, what _is_ real? This planet isn't. You're not. What's it all for?" He paused a moment reflectively. "We're getting on
to my second question, about Primus's attitude toward his 'father. 'Perhaps I should have asked just now, '_Who_ is real?' Who remembers
you, Secundus?" "This question, unfortunately, is the one I cannot answer with
complete frankness, Doctor.I assure you that it is not because I do
not wish to; I have no option in the matter. I can tell you only that
there is a Person of whom it might be said that He stands in the
parental relationship to Primus, to me, and all the rest of our
order.""God?" Herman inquired. "Jahweh? Allah?" "Please, no names, Doctor." Secundus looked apprehensive. "Then, damn it, tell me the rest! "Herman realized vaguely that he was
soothing his own hurt vanity at Secundus's expense, but he was
enjoying himself too much to stop. "You're afraid of something; that's
been obvious right along.And there must be a time limit on it, or you
wouldn't be rushing me. Why? | Abel, Franklin - Freudian Slip |
Are you afraid that if this unnamable
Person finds out you've botched your job, He'll wipe you out of
existence and start over with a new bunch? "A cold wind blew down Herman's back. "Not us alone, Dr. Raye," said
Secundus gravely. "If the Inspector discovers this blunder--and the
time is coming soon when He must--no corrections will be attempted. When a mistake occurs, it is--painted out. ""Oh," said Herman after a moment. He sat down again, weakly. "How long
have we got?" "Approximately one and a quarter days have gone by at the Earth's
normal rate since Primus lost his memory," Secundus said. "I have not
been able to 'speed you up,' as you termed it, by more than a
twenty-to-one ratio. The deadline will have arrived, by my
calculation, in fifteen minutes of normal time, or five hours at your
present accelerated rate. "Primus stepped into the room, crossed to the couch and lay down
placidly. Secundus turned to go, then paused. "As for your final question, Doctor--you might think of the Universe
as a Pointillist painting, in which this planet is one infinitesimally
small dot of color.The work is wholly imaginary, of course, since
neither the canvas nor the pigment has what you would term an
independent existence. Nevertheless, the artist takes it seriously. He
would not care to find, so to speak, mustaches daubed on it. "Herman sat limply, staring after him as he moved to the door. Secundus
turned once more. "I hope you will not think that I am displeased with you, Doctor," he
said. "On the contrary, I feel that you are accomplishing more than
anyone else has.However, should you succeed, as I devoutly hope,
there may not be sufficient time to congratulate you as you deserve.I
shall have to replace you immediately in your normal world-line, for
your absence would constitute as noticeable a flaw as that of the
planet. In that event, my present thanks and congratulations will have
to serve. "With a friendly smile, he disappeared. Herman wound his watch. Two hours later, Primus's answers to his questions began to show a
touch of resentment and surly defiance._Transference_, Herman
thought, with a constriction of his throat, and kept working
desperately. Three hours. "What does the bolster remind you of? ""I seem to see a big cylinder rolling through space, sweeping the
stars out of its way...."
Four hours. Only three minutes left now, in the normal world. _I can't
wait to get any deeper_, Herman thought._It's got to be now or
never._
"You must understand that these feelings of resentment and hatred are
normal," he said, trying to keep the strain out of his voice, "but, at
the same time, you have outgrown them--you can rise above them now.You are an individual in your own right, Primus. You have a job to do
that only you can fill, and it's an important job. That's what
matters, not all this infantile emotional clutter...."
He talked on, not daring to look at his watch.Primus looked up, and a huge smile broke over his face. He began,
"Why, of--"
* * * * *
Herman found himself walking along Forty-second Street, heading toward
the Hudson.The pavement was solid under his feet; the canyon between
the buildings was filled with the soft violet-orange glow of a summer
evening in New York. In the eyes of the people he passed, he saw the
same incredulous relief he felt. It was over.He'd done it. He'd broken all the rules, but, incredibly, he'd got results. Then he looked up and a chill spread over him.No one who knew the
city would accept that ithyphallic parody as the Empire State
Building, or those huge fleshy curves, as wanton as the mountains in
which Mr. Maugham's "Sadie Thompson" had her lusty existence, as the
prosaic hills of New Jersey.Psychoanalysis had certainly removed Mr. Primus's inhibitions. The
world was like a fence scrawled on by a naughty little boy. Mr. Primus
would outgrow it in time, but life until then might be somewhat
disconcerting.Those two clouds, for instance....
--FRANKLIN ABEL | Abel, Franklin - Freudian Slip |
Produced by Greg Weeks, Adam Buchbinder, Mary Meehan and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
JUNIOR
By ROBERT ABERNATHY
Illustrated by WEISS
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January
1956.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.] _All younger generations have been going to the dogs ... but this
one was genuinely sunk!_
"Junior!" bellowed Pater. "_Junior!_" squeaked Mater, a quavering echo. "Strayed off again--the young idiot! If he's playing in the shallows,
with this tide going out...." Pater let the sentence hang blackly.He leaned upslope as far as he could stretch, angrily scanning the
shoreward reaches where light filtered more brightly down through the
murky water, where the sea-surface glinted like bits of broken mirror. No sign of Junior.Mater was peering fearfully in the other direction, toward where, as
daylight faded, the slope of the coastal shelf was fast losing itself
in green profundity.Out there, out of sight at this hour, the reef
that loomed sheltering above them fell away in an abrupt cliffhead, and
the abyss began. "Oh, oh," sobbed Mater. "He's lost. He's swum into the abyss and been
eaten by a sea monster. "Her slender stem rippled and swayed on its
base and her delicate crown of pinkish tentacles trailed disheveled in
the pull of the ebbtide. "Pish, my dear!" said Pater. "There are no sea monsters.At worst," he
consoled her stoutly, "Junior may have been trapped in a tidepool." "Oh, oh," gulped Mater. "He'll be eaten by a land monster." "There ARE no land monsters!" snorted Pater.He straightened his stalk
so abruptly that the stone to which he and Mater were conjugally
attached creaked under them. "How often must I assure you, my dear,
that WE are the highest form of life? "(And, as for his world and
geologic epoch, he was quite right.) "Oh, oh," gasped Mater. Her spouse gave her up. "JUNIOR!" he roared in a voice that loosened
the coral along the reef. * * * * *
Round about, the couple's bereavement had begun attracting attention.In the thickening dusk, tentacles paused from winnowing the sea for
their owners' suppers, stalked heads turned curiously here and there in
the colony.Not far away, a threesome of maiden aunts, rooted en brosse
to a single substantial boulder, twittered condolences and watched
Mater avidly. "Discipline!" growled Pater. "That's what he needs! Just wait till I--"
"Now, dear--" began Mater shakily. "Hi, folks!" piped Junior from overhead. His parents swiveled as if on a single stalk. Their offspring was
floating a few fathoms above them, paddling lazily against the ebb;
plainly he had just swum from some crevice in the reef nearby.In one
pair of dangling tentacles he absently hugged a roundish stone, worn
sensuously smooth by pounding surf. "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" "Nowhere," said Junior innocently. "Just playing hide-and-go-sink with
the squids. ""With the other polyps," Mater corrected him primly. She detested slang. Pater was eyeing Junior with ominous calm. "And where," he asked, "did
you get that stone?" Junior contracted guiltily.The surfstone slipped from his tentacles
and plumped to the sea-floor in a flurry of sand. He edged away,
stammering, "Well, I guess maybe ... I might have gone a little ways
toward the beach...."
"You guess!When I was a polyp," said Pater, "the small fry obeyed
their elders, and no guess about it!" "Now, dear--" said Mater. "And no spawn of mine," Pater warmed to his lecture, "is going to flout
my words! Junior--COME HERE! "Junior paddled cautiously around the homesite, just out of
tentacle-reach. He said in a small voice, "I won't." "DID YOU HEAR ME?" "Yes," admitted Junior. The neighbors stared.The three maiden aunts clutched one another with
muted shrieks, savoring beforehand the language Pater would now use. But Pater said "Ulp!" --no more. "Now, dear," put in Mater quickly. "We must be patient.You know all
children go through larval stages." "When I was a polyp ..." Pater began rustily. He coughed out an
accidentally inhaled crustacean, and started over: "No spawn of
mine...." Trailing off, he only glared, then roared abruptly, "SPRAT! ""I won't!" said Junior reflexively and backpaddled into the coral
shadows of the reef. "That wallop," seethed Pater, "wants a good polyping. I mean...." He
glowered suspiciously at Mater and the neighbors. "Dear," soothed Mater, "didn't you _notice_? ""Of course, I.... Notice what?" "What Junior was doing ... carrying a stone. I don't suppose he
understands _why_, just yet, but...."
"A stone? Ah, uh, to be sure, a stone. Why, my dear, do you realize
what this _means_? "* * * * *
Pater was once more occupied with improving Mater's mind.It was a long
job, without foreseeable end--especially since he and his helpmeet were
both firmly rooted for life to the same tastefully decorated homesite
(garnished by Pater himself with colored pebbles, shells, urchins and
bits of coral in the rather rococo style which had prevailed during
Pater's courting days as a free-swimming polyp). "Intelligence, my dear," pronounced Pater, "is quite incompatible with
motility. Just think--how could ideas congeal in a brain shuttled
hither and yon, bombarded with ever-changing sense-impressions?Look
at the lower species, which swim about all their lives, incapable of
taking root or thought! True Intelligence, my dear--as distinguished
from Instinct, of course--pre-supposes the fixed viewpoint!" He paused.Mater murmured, "Yes, dear," as she always did obediently at this point. Junior undulated past, swimming toward the abyss. He moved a bit
heavily now; it was growing hard for him to keep his maturely
thickening afterbody in a horizontal posture. "Just look at the young of our own kind," said Pater. "Scatter-brained
larvae, wandering greedily about in search of new stimuli. But, praise
be, they mature at last into sensible sessile adults.While yet the
unformed intellect rebels against the ending of care-free polyphood,
Instinct, the wisdom of Nature, instructs them to prepare for the great
change!" He nodded wisely as Junior came gliding back out of the gloom of deep
water.Junior's tentacles clutched an irregular basalt fragment which
he must have picked up down the rubble-strewn slope. As he paddled
slowly along the rim of the reef, the adult anthozoans located directly
below looked up and hissed irritable warnings.He was swimming a bit more easily now and, if Pater had not been a
firm believer in Instinct, he might have been reminded of the grossly
materialistic theory, propounded by some iconoclast, according to which
a maturing polyp's tendency to grapple objects was merely a matter of
taking on ballast."See!" declared Pater triumphantly. | Abernathy, Robert - Junior |
"I don't suppose he understands
_why_, just yet ... but Instinct urges him infallibly to assemble the
materials for his future homesite. "* * * * *
Junior let the rock fragment fall, and began plucking restlessly at a
coral outcropping. "Dear," said Mater, "don't you think you ought to tell him...?" "Ahem!" said Pater. "The wisdom of Instinct--"
"As you've always said, a polyp needs a parent's guidance," remarked
Mater. "_Ahem!_" repeated Pater. He straightened his stalk, and bellowed
authoritatively, "JUNIOR! Come here!" The prodigal polyp swam warily close. "Yes, Pater?" "Junior," said his parent solemnly, "now that you are about to grow
down, it behooves you to know certain facts." Mater blushed a delicate lavender and turned away on her side of the
rock. "Very soon now," said Pater, "you will begin feeling an irresistible
urge ... to sink to the bottom, to take root there in some sheltered
location which will be your lifetime site.Perhaps you even have an
understanding already with some ... ah ... charming young polyp of the
opposite gender, whom you would invite to share your homesite.Or, if
not, you should take all the more pains to make that site as attractive
as possible, in order that such a one may decide to grace it with--"
"Uh-huh," said Junior understandingly. "That's what the fellows mean
when they say any of 'em'll fall for a few high-class rocks." Pater marshaled his thoughts again. "Well, quite apart from such
material considerations as selecting the right rocks, there are
certain ... ah ... matters we do not ordinarily discuss." Mater blushed a more pronounced lavender.The three maiden aunts,
rooted to their boulder within easy earshot of Pater's carrying voice,
put up a respectable pretense of searching one another for nonexistent
water-fleas. "No doubt," said Pater, "in the course of your harum-scarum
adventurings as a normal polyp among polyps, you've noticed the ways
in which the lower orders reproduce themselves; the activities of the
fishes, the crustacea, the marine worms will not have escaped your
attention. ""Uh-huh," said Junior, treading water. * * * * *
"You will have observed that among these there takes place a good
deal of ... ah ... maneuvering for position.But among intelligent,
firmly rooted beings like ourselves, matters are, of course, on a less
crude and direct plane. What among lesser creatures is a question of
tactics belongs, for us, to the realm of strategy." Pater's tone
grew confiding. "Now, Junior, once you're settled you'll realize the
importance of being easy in your mind about your offspring's parentage. Remember, a niche in brine saves trying. Nothing like choosing your
location well in the first place.Study the currents around your
prospective site--particularly their direction and force at such
crucial times as flood-tide.Try to make sure you and your future mate
won't be too close down-current from anybody else's site, since in a
case like that accidents can happen. You understand, Junior?" "Uh-huh," acknowledged Junior. "That's what the fellows mean when they
say don't let anybody get the drop on you." "Well!" said Pater in flat disapproval. "But it all seems sort of silly," said Junior stubbornly. "_I'd_ rather
just keep moving around, and not have to do all that figuring. And the
ocean's full of things I haven't seen yet. I don't _want_ to grow down!" Mater paled with shock. Pater gave his spawn a scalding, scandalized
look. "You'll learn!You can't beat Biology," he said thickly,
creditably keeping his voice down. "Junior, you may go!" Junior bobbled off, and Pater admonished Mater sternly, "We must have
patience, my dear!All children pass through these larval stages...."
"Yes, dear," sighed Mater. * * * * *
At long last, Junior seemed to have resigned himself to making the best
of it.With considerable exertions, hampered by his increasing
bottom-heaviness, he was fetching loads of stones, seaweed and other
debris to a spot downslope, and there laboring over what promised to
be a fairly ambitious cairn.Judging by what they could see of it,
his homesite might even prove a credit to the colony (so went Pater's
thoughts) and attract a mate who would be a good catch (thus Mater
mused).Junior was still to be seen at times along the reef in company with
his free-swimming friends among the other polyps, at some of whom
his parents had always looked askance, fearing they were by no means
well-bred.In fact, there was strong suspicion that some of them--waifs
from the disreputable Shallows district in the hazardous reaches just
below the tide-mark--had never been bred at all, but were products of
budding, a practice frowned on in polite society.However, Junior's appearance and rate of locomotion made it clear
he would soon be done with juvenile follies.As Pater repeated with
satisfaction--you can't beat Biology; as one becomes more and more
bottle-shaped, the romantic illusions of youth must inevitably perish. "I always knew there was sound stuff in the youngster," declared Pater
expansively. "At least he won't be able to go around with those ragamuffins much
longer," breathed Mater thankfully. "What does the young fool think he's doing, fiddling round with
soapstone? "grumbled Pater, peering critically through the green to try
to make out the details of Junior's building. "Doesn't he know it's apt
to slip its place in a year or two? ""Look, dear," hissed Mater acidly, "isn't that the little polyp who was
so rude once?... I wish she wouldn't keep watching Junior like that. Our northwest neighbor heard _positively_ that she's the child of an
only parent!" "Never mind. "Pater turned to reassure her. "Once Junior is properly
rooted, his self-respect will cause him to keep riffraff at a distance. It's a matter of Psychology, my dear; the vertical position makes all
the difference in one's thinking. "* * * * *
The great day arrived.Laboriously Junior put a few finishing
touches to his construction--which, so far as could be seen from a
distance, had turned out decent-looking enough, though it was rather
questionably original in design: lower and flatter than was customary.With one more look at his handiwork, Junior turned bottom-end-down
and sank wearily onto the finished site. After a minute, he paddled
experimentally, but flailing tentacles failed to lift him.He was
already rooted, and growing more solidly so by the moment. "Congratulations!" cried the neighbors. Pater and Mater bowed this way
and that in acknowledgment. Mater waved a condescending tentacle to the
three maiden aunts. "I told you so! "said Pater triumphantly. "Yes, dear...." said Mater meekly. Suddenly there were outcries of alarm from the dwellers down-reef. A
wave of dismay swept audibly through all the nearer part of the colony. | Abernathy, Robert - Junior |
Pater and Mater looked around, and froze.Junior had begun paddling again, but this time in a most peculiar
manner--with a rotary twist and sidewise scoop which looked awkward,
but which he performed so deftly that he must have practiced it.Fixed
upright as he was now on the platform he had built, he looked for all
the world as if he were trying to swim sidewise. "He's gone _mad_!" squeaked Mater. "I ..." gulped Pater, "I'm afraid not. "At least, they saw, there was method in Junior's actions. He went on
paddling in the same fashion and now he, and his platform with him,
were farther away than they had been, and growing more remote as they
stared. * * * * *
Parts of the homesite that was not a homesite revolved in some way
incomprehensible to eyes that had never seen the like.And the whole
affair trundled along, rocking at bumps in the sandy bottom, and
squeaking painfully; nevertheless, it moved.The polyps watching from the reef swam out and frolicked after Junior,
watching his contrivance go and chattering eager questions, while their
parents bawled at them to keep away from that.The three maiden aunts shrieked faintly and swooned in one another's
tentacles. The colony was shaken as it had not been since the tidal
wave. "COME BACK!" thundered Pater. "You CAN'T do that!" "_Come back!_" shrilled Mater. "You can't do _that_! ""Come back!" gabbled the neighbors. "You can't _do_ that!" | Abernathy, Robert - Junior |
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
PERIL OF THE BLUE WORLD
By ROBERT ABERNATHY
The First Earth Expedition was the scouting
force of the conquering Martians.But conditions
were totally different from those expected, and
science was of no value--for on Earth were
"beings" that weapons could not fight. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ]There are those who have criticized the wisdom of the members of the
First Earth Expedition in returning to Mars so precipitately, without
completing the observations and explorations which it had been intended
they should make.For some time now, we who were with the Expedition
and knew the real reason for that return have chosen to ignore these
few but noisy individuals; but latterly some of the hot-headed younger
generation, but lately out of the egg and unwilling to trust to the
wisdom of their elders, have begun to talk of launching a second
expedition to the Blue Planet.Therefore, I, Shapplo with the Long Proboscis, interpreter to the First
Expedition, have been commissioned by the crew of the Earth Rocket to
tell the full and unexpurgated story of our adventures on Earth, and
the reasons for our contention that the planet must forever remain
closed to Martian colonization.I will pass over the details of the interplanetary voyage, which
consists chiefly of scientific data and figures not calculated to
interest the average reader.Suffice it to say that the Earth Rocket,
with the twenty-three members of its crew alive and intact, came safely
to rest on the crest of a gently-swelling hill in the midst of an
island in the northern hemisphere of Earth.This island is located by
our astronomers as 1-2-2-(1) North, but is called by its inhabitants,
Engelond or Britannia.We landed in the southern portion of this island, on a hilltop as
before stated; and, after conditioning our lungs and wearing gravity
belts against Earth's dense atmosphere and correspondingly strong
gravity, we threw open the exit ports and trooped out, led by our
captain, Tutwa with the Crooked Ears, our second in command, Ikleek
from Gnoxwid, and myself; also, immediately behind us, came our
zoologist, Zesmo Who Fell in the Canal when an Infant.The first thing noticed by all of us, but particularly by Zesmo Who
Fell in the Canal, was the riparian-appearing profusion of Earthly
life which at once displayed itself.Plants of every size and shape,
invariably green in color but bearing blossoms of all shades, covered
the hillside, and all of the rolling landscape that was visible
from our point of vantage.Among the leaves and flowers fluttered
bright-colored objects which we soon perceived, with great surprise, to
be living creatures. "What a planet!" exclaimed the captain philosophically. "Even the lower
animals can fly; what then may we expect of the higher creatures, the
intelligent races? ""You'll notice, however," said Zesmo, who had in the meantime succeeded
in capturing one of these aerial dancers, "that they fly entirely
without artificial aids. It is made possible by the dense atmosphere of
Earth. "* * * * *
As we moved forward among the thick and moderately lofty vegetation,
small, furred, four-legged creatures leaped out of the underbrush and
scampered rapidly away.Using ray-guns at low power, we paralyzed
several of these; but, after close examination, we were forced to
conclude that we must look further for the intelligent inhabitants of
the planet. "It's quite possible that there isn't any intelligent race," said
Zesmo gloomily. "If they were very bright, I should think they'd have
crossed space to Mars before now." "Don't expect too much of the poor Earthman, Zesmo," retorted Ikleek. "Remember that our own race discovered space travel only three
generations ago, and that ours is the first rocket powerful enough
to dare Earth's gravitational field.Due to the high velocity of
escape, the development of space travel by Earthman would be very much
retarded. They might have a high civilization and never get off the
ground." "Aerial flight should be easy," argued Zesmo. "Look at even those
ignorant little--"
He was interrupted by a shrill shout from one of the crew.One and all,
we turned toward the sound, and saw him hastening toward us through the
trees as fast as Earth's tremendous gravity would let him, waving his
tentacles and glowing with terror. "A monster!" he sputtered. "A metal monster! "We hastily adjusted our ray-guns to full power, and awaited anxiously
the onslaught of whatever formidable being might come against us. We
had not long to wait, for in a moment we saw approaching among the
trees a fantastic creature.For some moments we gaped foolishly at the thing before we realized
that it was actually a compound monster--two animals in one, so to
speak. Except that one was not an animal, but evidently a machine!The Earth-monster had not yet seen us; and at this juncture I took
the opportunity to hastily scribble some notes which I very shortly
regretted.However, to illustrate the fact that anyone may make
mistakes and that even the most apparent truths may be misinterpreted,
I will here reproduce what I wrote:
"The intelligent inhabitants of Earth somewhat resemble us in the
possession of four limbs, two eyes, and two elongated protuberances
which are very likely ears.The sensory organs are mostly located
on, or about, the front of the head. The feet are sheathed in horny
coverings which may be either natural or artificial.The caudal
appendage is of considerable length and bears long dense hairs, thus
differing from the rest of the body, over which the hairy covering is
short and flat-lying.No real proboscis is present, but the head is
much elongated in front, with the snout directed downward...."
Enough of this. At least, tremendous as my error was, it was at the
time shared by all the others present.The animal above described formed the lower portion of the compound
being which confronted us.Mounted astride of it was a gleaming metal
creature, constructed on the same lines, but with jointed arms and legs
of metal, without a tail, and seated erect instead of going slavishly
on all fours.In one hand it grasped a long pole with a sharp metal
point, and other accouterments which might be weapons were girded about
it. "A robot!" ejaculated the Captain. He had jumped to the same natural
conclusion as the rest of us. "What do you say to an intelligent race now, Zesmo?" hissed Ikleek. "Obviously the Earthmen were _too_ intelligent. They built a high
civilization and were enslaved by their own machines! | Abernathy, Robert - Peril of the Blue World |
""Perhaps we Martians are destined to free this oppressed race from
ignoble servitude!" exclaimed Zesmo. "If we can just paralyze and
capture the machine--" He began adjusting his ray-gun to low power. * * * * *
The creature may have heard our voices, muffled as they were by the
heavy air.At any rate, it suddenly turned toward us, displaying an
expressionless metal face with a curious grille arrangement in front;
and, recovering in a trice from its evident astonishment, it drove feet
armed with dagger-sharp points into the flanks of its mount, and came
galloping toward us.As it came it lowered its long spear, with the
obvious intention of impaling upon it one or more of our number.Zesmo's right tentacle whipped up with his ray-gun; there was a sharp
crackle of invisible energy in the air, blue sparks leaped about the
thing's metal joints, and both it and its mount toppled heavily to the
earth and lay in an inert heap. [Illustration: _Zesmo's right tentacle whipped up; there was the sharp
crackle of energy in the air; sparks leaped about the thing's metal
joints._]
We approached them with caution--none too cautiously, as it developed,
because abruptly the robot stirred and scrambled dizzily to its
feet.Its metal sheathing had absorbed most of the ray-gun's merely
paralyzing energy.With a swift, practiced motion, it drew from its
side a long, straight, sharp blade, which I subconsciously identified
as a primitive weapon operating on the wedge principle, even as I was
raising and aiming my ray-gun.Taking cognizance of the fact that we would much prefer to capture the
machine in an undamaged state, but also of the fact that unless steps
were taken it would very shortly hack me into small pieces, I aimed at
the upraised weapon and pressed the firing button.The ray, at full
power, struck the blade, which glowed red-hot and partially fused. The robot dropped it with a sharp exclamation of uncertain meaning,
probably expressing considerable annoyance.In the meantime Zesmo had stepped to close range, and now he gave the
metal man a considerably augmented dosage of the ray. With a hiss and
crackle, the robot collapsed and gave us no more trouble.Zesmo had begun to examine the prostrate animal upon which it had
ridden, with a view to resuscitation, then Ikleek, who had turned his
attention to the robot, abruptly straightened up and began to rock to
and fro in amusement. "Would you mind telling me what you're so happy about?" inquired Zesmo
with pardonable acerbity. "Merely that we've all made a _very_ silly mistake," gurgled Ikleek,
recovering a portion of his composure.He flipped a contemptuous
tentacle toward the animal which Zesmo had been examining. "Intelligent
creature, bah!" He began to rock back and forth uncontrollably once
more. "Explain yourself," ordered Captain Tutwa sternly.For answer, the second in command bent over the "robot," and, wrenching
off its metal head-covering, revealed the face of an unconscious living
being.I need not describe the Earthman, since the form and appearance of this
race have become familiar to all Martians from the photographs and
descriptions which we brought back from Earth.I will only mention that
this specimen was a male, and consequently was rather hairy about the
lower portion of the face as well as on the top and back of the head.Zesmo made no comment, but popped his eyes in and out of his head at an
expressive rate. "Here's your Earthman!" chortled Ikleek gleefully, tapping on the
creature's metal chest-protector. "He's only wearing armor, a great
deal like a spacesuit. ""Maybe he'll die if you leave his helmet off," exclaimed Zesmo in alarm. I picked up the helmet and examined it. "His armor isn't airtight," I
informed the company. "It must be worn for some other reason. "We were all considerably puzzled by this, and determined to revive the
Earthman as soon as possible, in order to question him on this subject
and others. With some difficulty we carried him back to the ship. * * * * *
Unable to use drugs, due to the possibility of essential differences
between Earthly and Martian chemical constitutions, we were forced to
resort to purely physical means for his resuscitation; but we were very
shortly successful to the extent that the Earthman stirred, opened his
lidded eyes, and sat up groggily--then, seeing us crowding about him
curiously with waving tentacles and proboscides, uttered an insane yell
and attempted to leave the ship at once.It was with much difficulty that we succeeded in overpowering the
frantic Earthman without his breaking the glass oxygen helmet which
we had placed over his head to allow him to breathe air at the normal
Earthly pressure of between fourteen and fifteen pounds to the square
inch.With the aid of a dozen members of the crew, however, we
eventually subdued him, not without ourselves sustaining some damage.The tip of one left tentacle was somehow broken off in the scuffle,
and by the time I had located the fragment and fastened it back on
with medicated adhesive to facilitate healing, the Earthman had been
strapped to a table and the telepathor set up.Since I was interpreter for the expedition, due to my training in the
arts and sciences of telepathy, psychology, and linguistics, I, at
once, took charge, checked over the apparatus, and began to experiment
with a view to discovering the vibration frequency of the Earthman's
mind.At last I found it, surprisingly far down in the scale. The
Earthmen have exceedingly slow minds, which do not allow them to think
quickly in an emergency; this, however, does not prevent them from
acting quickly.Having finally attuned the transformer of the telepathor to step down
my mental frequency to the Earthman's level, I succeeded in entering
into telepathic communication with him.I will not attempt to reproduce
this conversation in words, but will merely give the gist of it, which
was about all that I grasped at the time, having no familiarity with
Earthly idioms of thought.This Earthman's name, I gathered, was Sir Henry de Long, the initial
"Sir" being some sort of title of more or less vague meaning.He
was also a "knight"; this, too, was an honor of some sort, and was
intimately connected with the wearing of a considerable quantity
of heavy iron and the possession of a horse--the animal upon which
the Earthman had been mounted when we first made his acquaintance.In addition to his knighthood, he was an "Englishman," which he
also appeared to consider a distinction.On further questioning, it
developed that being an Englishman meant having been born in this
island of Engelond; I was unable to perceive why this accident should
be a cause for personal pride, but concluded that there must be some
reason buried deep in Earthly psychology.When I inquired about his armor, I discovered that it had something
to do with his being a knight; furthermore, he seemed to be proud of
the armor. | Abernathy, Robert - Peril of the Blue World |
In fact, this remarkable individual was proud of almost
everything connected with himself.This is one of the characteristics
of a certain class of Earthmen, to which this specimen belonged; we
discovered later that the vast majority of the race is educated to a
becoming humility, while a limited group is allowed to consider itself
out of the ordinary and infinitely better than the rest.This is quite
proper, of course; those who are superior should be accorded fitting
distinction. During our brief stay on Earth, however, we were unable
to ascertain the basis on which the superiority of this class is
determined.I succeeded in assuring de Long of our kindly intentions toward him,
and obtained his promise not to make trouble if released.Considering
the high respect in which this queer fellow held himself, I was
reasonably certain that he would refrain from breaking his "word of
honor." I learned also that de Long's home was not far from our present
location.On due consideration, we decided to move the ship to this
place and gain an opportunity to observe these people in their natural
habitat. * * * * *
The Earth Rocket, accordingly, lifted and flew several miles to
the east, landing near the castle, or great fortress-like building
of stone, which was our guest's usual habitation.The Earthman was
overwhelmed by the actuality of flight; we learned, when he finally
came out of his daze, that artificial flying was here believed
impossible.We were somewhat startled by the sensation produced by our appearance
on the scene; of course, these people had never seen a flying machine,
but their excitement seemed to us wholly disproportionate.However,
it is a characteristic of Earthman psychology to believe anything you
have never seen or heard of impossible, and accordingly to be very
much alarmed when it actually appears.After we had entered the castle
with de Long in our midst, we were disagreeably surprised to learn
that on observing our approach the people in the fortress had prepared
quantities of boiling oil and heavy stones with the idea of dropping
them on us when we passed under the walls, and had only been deterred
by the presence of their chieftain.It was not a pleasant thought.Nevertheless, after their terror had been dissipated by our
pacificatory policy, these people became childishly curious, and
wherever any one of us went, he could be sure of a crowd of gaping
Earthmen following on his heels to observe his every action.Zesmo was a bit disappointed by the low state of advancement in which
we found the Earthmen.They have no electricity and no self-powered
machines; they depend entirely upon muscle, either their own--which
is far from inconsiderable in proportion to their intellect--or that
of their various slave animals.In some things they display striking
ingenuity, in other remarkable obtusity.During our several days' stay near the castle of de Long, Zesmo and our
sociologist, Plagu Long Legs, gathered an immense body of data on the
life and characteristics of the Earthmen, which may be found in almost
any public library in more or less condensed form.Therefore I will
avoid going into it here. So far, we had found no great danger on Earth, and no hint of the
horrors which must forever prohibit exploration of the planet.One day,
however, when I was pursuing an investigation of their socialistic
society in a telepathor conversation with de Long, he happened to
mention that one of the occupations of a good knight was killing
dragons. "Dragons? "I inquired, recording the word in my notebook. "Wot ye not what dragons be?" exclaimed de Long, with raised
eyebrows--an expression of mild surprise with the Earthmen. "A dragon
is a huge beast, the greatest on the Earth.From its mouth and
nostrils, it breathes flame and smoke, so that but to approach it is
deadly peril." "Uh--where do these brutes live?" I wanted to know, somewhat
apprehensively. "There are not many in Engelond in these latter days, St. George and
many another valiant champion having harried them full sore, slaying
many and putting the fear of God into the rest.But in Ireland and
other lands many remain and are the terror of all men living." * * * * *
This was a bit of a shock, to say the least.We had expected dangers on
Earth, naturally; but no such fearsome beasts as de Long described. Our
ray guns might prove quite ineffective against these terrible animals. "Are these the most dangerous creatures on Earth? "I inquired, with
some hesitancy. De Long leaned back and emitted a series of explosive sounds indicative
of amusement. "Far from it," he declared. "For though dragons be vasty and terrible,
yet are there other creatures no whit less perilous to mortal men, and
some far more so.We have many fiends of divers sorts even here in
Engelond, some of which are friends to man and hold no malice, but the
most of which are ill-natured and lose no opportunity to do a mischief.They say that when the rovers came from Noroway in the days of the
good King Aelfred, they brought with them in their long black galleys,
together with many a thirsty spear, the devils and hobgoblins that
were their pagan gods; and that these have stayed after them and are
yet the foes of all true Englishmen. ""We have seen no such creatures," said I doubtfully. "Nay, for men rarely see them. For the most part, they do their evil
deeds by night; and many are able to become invisible at their will.And some take divers forms: such are the werewolves, which are by day
men, by night ravenous man-eating beasts." This was decidedly discouraging. I was still not sure, though, that de
Long was not merely jesting. "Are these things likely to be dangerous to Martians?" I demanded. "I know not--but here in Engelond, as I have said before, there are
much fewer of these fiends than elsewhere," he reassured me. I glanced nervously about the room. "Is it--is it possible that an
invisible fiend might be present even here?" I knew that our scientists
had produced invisibility in the laboratory, but it was hard to
believe--
De Long nodded gravely. "Quite possible," he affirmed, adding
sententiously, "Even walls have ears; speak of the Devil and his imps
will appear." "Excuse me," I said falteringly. "I just remembered an important
engagement--"
I switched off the telepathor, gathered it up and made a hasty exit. I
wanted to consult with Captain Tutwa.The captain listened with skepticism to my retelling of de Long's
account of the dangers of the Blue Planet. "Bah!" he said, when I had finished. "The Earthman was probably lying,
for some reason or other. These fellows have strange motives. ""But why should he tell me such tales?" I persisted. "He seemed
perfectly serious. And if such dangers _do_ exist on Earth--"
"The motive becomes perfectly plain to me!" exclaimed the captain,
snapping a tentacle in the air. | Abernathy, Robert - Peril of the Blue World |
"By telling us of imaginary dangers,
the Earthman intends to frighten us away and preserve his sovereignty
over the planet." "That sounds like a plausible reason," I admitted. "But--if he _is_
telling the truth, we are risking Martian lives every moment we remain
here! We should at least check the facts." "Well...." The captain turned blue with concentration. "The Council,
in chartering the Earth Expedition, expressed a fear that the planet
might prove unavailable for colonization, due to possible inimical
life forms.It's so much nearer the Sun, and so moist, that we had
anticipated just such a canalbank jungle as does exist; and it's
possible that the pressure of evolutionary competition might develop
strange and fearful creatures....But, remember that we haven't seen
even one of these 'fiends.'" "De Long said that a great many of them are invisible." "Hmm!" said the captain. "Of course, that's within the bounds of
possibility, though not of probability; but before we came here I'd
have said flying animals were improbable. We had best investigate." "Eh?" "It's simple. We'll merely put de Long under the lie detector. "* * * * *
I was struck by the beautiful simplicity of this idea, which should
have been right in my province. "I leave it to you to maneuver de Long into a position where we can use
the detector without his knowledge," said the captain. "Very well," I said joyfully.It was not difficult to get de Long aboard the ship; he had never had
a chance to satisfy his curiosity concerning it.I showed him through
several of the cabins without doing anything to arouse his suspicions,
and finally got him seated within the effective radius of the lie
detector. "Er--I've been wondering about--about those werewolves you were telling
me of, Sir Henry," I improvised. "Just what are their habits?" "They are a dangerous sort of demon," replied the Earthman readily. "By
day they appear to be ordinary men, save that they may be distinguished
by the first finger of the right hand being longer than the second;
but in the dead of night the craving for human flesh comes upon them,
they grow hairy, their nails become claws and their jaws lengthen, and
they are wolves.They may not be slain by any weapon while in the beast
form, but must be taken in human shape." I quivered in spite of myself. The lie detector indicator had not moved
from center--what he was saying must be the dreadful truth! "Are--are they the worst sort of fiend common around here?" I ventured
to ask. De Long constricted the skin above his eyes judiciously. "The vampire
is likewise a direful demon, though little known in these parts," he
declared. "It is the soul of an unsanctified corpse, which rises in the
night from its grave and goes forth to suck blood and life from living
men." * * * * *
I sprang to my feet, unable to remain still any longer. De Long stared. "Is aught amiss?" he exclaimed anxiously. "No--nothing," I muttered, and the lie detector needle leaped clear
against its stop pins. "That is--I rather think we'll be leaving Earth
before very long. "With lame excuses, we managed to get the Earthman
outside. Captain Tutwa thoroughly agreed with me that we must leave this noxious
planet at once, never to return, and that Earth must be declared unfit
for Martian colonization.I can solemnly say that the Blue Planet is
a veritable inferno; we of Mars will do well to keep clear of it in
future interplanetary explorations.I am sure that you can well see that Earth can never be colonized from
Mars, that it must be forever shunned as a plague spot.If any of our
hot-headed youth is now so foolhardy as to brave the horrors of that
planet of fear, their blood is on their own heads.In the 75th day of the 242nd year of the invention of the steam
engine,
(Signed)
Shapplo with the Long Proboscis,
Interpreter, First Earth Expedition. | Abernathy, Robert - Peril of the Blue World |
Righteous Plague
By Robert Abernathy
Complete Novelet of Uncontrolled Weapons
It was a virus, against which the enemy
could make no defense--but a virus does
not distinguish between friend and foe.And immunity to what became known as the
righteous plague could exist anywhere,
or nowhere at all....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Science Fiction Quarterly May 1951.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The ugly, high-backed truck splashed heavily through the puddles of the
weedy road.Just before it reached a curve, it swayed and slithered as
the brakes locked suddenly. A man had come stumbling from the rain-wet
bushes; he paused now, stared dully at the halted, angrily grumbling
monster.An officer heaved himself out of the seat beside the driver, cursed
irritably, flung open the door and swung out onto the running board--a
malevolently superhuman figure in his panoply of snouted mask and
rubberized armor.His gloved hand lifted, sliding a long-barreled
automatic from its worn holster, aiming. At the shot's crash the man
from the thicket stiffened and toppled into the mud, where he writhed
painfully.Two more bullets, carefully placed, put a stop to that. The officer slid back into the seat and sighed with a sucking sound
inside his mask.Without being told, the driver turned the truck
cautiously off the road; tilting far over, left wheels deep in the
slippery ditch, it ground in lowest gear past the motionless body,
keeping several feet away.In the back of the truck, five oddly-assorted civilian men and one
woman huddled together and exchanged vaguely curious glances over
the stop, the shooting, and the detour.Then, as the machine climbed
back onto the roadbed and they could see the corpse sprawled in the
way behind, the interest left their faces; they reflected only the
emptiness of the gray sky, the hopelessness of the sodden fields
and woods they passed.The prisoners might have found the weather
appropriate for death. They did not speak of that, because they knew
they were on their way to die.But the masked and armored soldiers who sat nervously watching them,
rifles clutched between their knees, did speak of death, and made
sour jokes about it.They did not know they themselves were going to
death--that when the execution was done and reported by radio, a plane
would be overhead inside two minutes to bomb them.That would take place by order of the Diktatura, that is: by the
sovereign will of the People, expressed by its Executive Council, which
was responsible directly to the Dictator.Naturally it was the People's will that no one come out of a plague
spot, for the People feared death. Joseph Euge said as much to the pale, underfed-looking young man who
crouched beside him in the bed of the truck. "The gasproof clothing,"
he added, "protects nothing but morale, and these men's morale needs to
last only until--their job is done. "The young man looked at him fixedly, seeing gray hair, a firm-lined
face, and a suit that had been expensively respectable. They did
not know each other's names.All the trials had been separate; each
prisoner had been told that the others--whom, for the most part, he had
never heard of--had confessed the whole plot. "What makes you think so? ""I know a good deal of the Dictator's ways," said Euge quietly; "I used
to be well acquainted with him." "You were close to him--who are you?" "My name is Joseph Euge." "_Doctor_ Euge. "The pale young man's eyes widened as he repeated the
name the way the newspapers had printed it so often; he edged a little
away from the other, jostling the woman beside him.She, too, stared
with haunted eyes, and her lips framed the name in a whisper; the rest
of the condemned--a large rough man in a workman's faded blue, a little
Jew with twitching hands, and another youth who, like Euge's neighbor,
had evidently been a student--looked at him also, with an expression
compounded of wonder, fear, and hate. * * * * *
Behind their masks, fixed eyes and bayonets gleaming, the guards sat
stony-faced. They were trained to be blind, deaf, and dumb--and on
occasion oblivious of smells--in the stern fulfillment of duty. "You are _the_ Dr. Euge?" whispered the woman with a flicker of
interest. "The man who loosed the plague on the world?" He nodded and stared at his knees. "It is true," he said slowly,
"that I was a military bacteriologist--one of the best; it is only an
accident that I was anything more. I have made my share of mistakes.Most of us have been patriots at one time or another, else there could
have been no Victory. "Euge noted wryly how strong the indoctrination
of his mind was, relegating the word 'war' to the realm of obscene
taboos, and leaving only 'victory' permissible. "But--" he lifted his
gray head and looked candidly into their faces, "when I 'loosed the
plague', as you put it, I was not being a patriot and I do not think I
was making a mistake." They stared at him with bleak eyes.Euge said almost pleadingly, "I
believe you are all members of the Witnesses of the Lord, who are
proscribed for maintaining that the plague is a punishment decreed
against a sinful world.From that standpoint, surely I am not to blame
for having acted as an instrument of divine justice." It was as if he
appealed for judgment to these strangers, to whom he was united in the
intimate community of a grave that must be shared. "He's right," said the Jew, and smiled a little, even then, with
pleasure at a point well made. "We're inconsistent if we blame him. "There was a lightening in their wan, drained faces, mostly of relief at
being told that they need not spend those few last minutes in hating.The woman's reaction was strongest; she leaned forward, eyes suddenly
feverish: "Do you believe as we do, then? Did you know you were guided,
when--"
The scientist said wearily, "I have seen no visions, I have heard no
voices.Still I do not feel responsible for what has come on the world
through me. In the plenum of probabilities, what may be will be...."
"Doctor, beyond your universe of probabilities there must be a power
that chooses among them. "The young student spoke with the quiet
conviction of a man in whom knowledge and faith are at peace. "We must
accept that power--or the logic by which it chooses among the possible
worlds--as good, the definition of good.You should see that--now, if
never before." He quoted Goethe."... | Abernathy, Robert - Righteous plague |
_denn nur im Elend erkennt man
Gottes Hand und Finger, der gute Menschen zum Guten leitet._"
Euge looked out through the rear of the truck, at the gray landscape
rumbling away, and guessed that the journey's end was still fifteen
minutes ahead; unless his knowledge of how the Dictator's mind worked
failed him, the place would be near the wreckage of his one-time
laboratory, leveled from the air on the naive theory that some devilish
device there was broadcasting the seeds of plague....
Aching minutes that had to be soothed with words.Words--God, fate,
hope, hereafter--are man's last support when everything else has given
way. "So you accept the plague as good? I saw one of your propaganda
sheets with the phrase 'Judgment Virus'. An apt name.But it does
not judge as men do; it has its own peculiar standards, that virus
I found." Euge's voice was level, colorless; he did not look at the
others to hold their attention or to see if they were listening. "I
will tell you what it is...."
2
Euge was busy in the microscope room, examining tissue from the last
run of test animals, when the communicator buzzed and told him that the
Dictator had arrived and wanted to see him at once.He left the room by way of an airlock, in which--Dictatorial summons
notwithstanding--he spent full five minutes under a spray of
disinfectant chemicals and radiations; after the lock had cleared he
stripped off the airtight armor he wore without touching any of its
outer surfaces, and left the chamber quickly.The Dictator's visit was a signal mark of Euge's importance, or
at least that of his virus research; there was no doubt that Euge
was highly thought of and trusted.His dossier was that of a man
who extended his scientist's worship of "Truth" even into the very
different field of human relations. The Diktatura could use such men. Euge knew his status, had given it little thought for years.It was his
private social contract, the working agreement by which the powers that
be gave him the priceless opportunity to do research, in return for
the--to him--worthless byproducts of same.Now, he thought as he went up in the elevator, the Dictator would
be impatient--or at least eager--to hear the results of the newest
experiments. The first tests of the new strain showed promise, by
inoculations of a monkey, _Macacus rhesus_.The last series of
experimental animals had belonged to another primate species._Homo
sapiens._ That was the crucial proof, whether men infected with Virus
RM4-2197--R for rubeola, or measles, M4 for fourth-stage mutant, the
rest the classification number of the culture--would die swiftly,
surely, with a minimum of fuss.That was routine, too, but the results
were not. The results had kept Euge lying awake for some nights now. Awake,
open-eyed, face to face with himself as he had not been within his
memory.He turned briskly into the contagion laboratory, deliberately making
delay, explaining to himself that it would be best to have all the data
on the new culture at his fingertips.The big room was a jungle of
sealed glass cases where beady-eyed mice tumbled over each other, where
healthy rabbits nibbled lettuce cheek by jowl with rabbits whose bodies
seethed with mutant microbes.At the most crowded end of the room was
Novik, brightest of the skilled young men assigned as assistants and
apprentices to the great Dr. Euge, busy now with pencil and notebook,
counting dead mice. * * * * *
Euge looked over Novik's shoulder at the tallies. They were many. He
asked, "What does it come to?" "So far," said Novik, "I've only been over the direct and remote cages.But--" he gestured at the remaining glass compartments on his right,
"I'd be willing to bet the results of the delayed exposures are the
same. Contagion, one hundred per cent; mortality, one hundred per cent.The only difference is, that where infected and healthy mice have a
screen between them, the healthy ones get it slower--a few cases at
first, then it runs right through them." "Mmm," said Euge without enthusiasm.The figures proved nothing
new--only that the mutant virus bred true; for that matter, the 100-100
ratio of infections and deaths to exposures had been achieved already
with RM3. Euge turned toward a double tier of cages along the side wall.These
were small, built to contain one animal apiece, ten above, ten below.They were segregation cages; the lower tier was wired to a wall plug
through a transformer and a mildly remarkable device, consisting of
two slowly revolving, eccentric wheels and a relay, which insured that
the metal floor of the ten cages should be slightly electrified at
irregular intervals. "Mmm," said Euge again, surveying the victims of his unorthodox
experiment.Of the ten mice in the bottom cages, not all were dead;
they had been exposed to Virus RM4 somewhat later than those in the
large cases, after the first tests on human beings; but those that
still lived were obviously breathing their last.In the upper tier,
though, seven mice were still bright-eyed and alert; two were dead, and
a third lay on its side, panting and bedraggled. Euge swung back to Novik. "Set up fifty more segregation cages. Clear
the wired set for a repeat test.And get me half a dozen cats. And--"
he hesitated, "don't mention these experiments to the others if you
can help it; we two can handle all the necessary work. "Novik's clear eyes dwelt briefly on his superior's face, a look of
sympathetic understanding for the haggard pallor, the tired lines about
the older man's mouth. "Right," he nodded crisply. "I'll be back by the time you're ready," said Euge. "Right now I have a
chore to do." "The Dictator's here?" Euge frowned. "How did you know?" "It's plain in your face.... What are you going to tell him?" "Tell him? Why, what he's come to hear. "* * * * *
The Dictator was as usual splendid in uniform.His was not a garish
or offensive splendor, but beautifully tailored, pointed up with
harmonizing gleams of bright metal, like the tasteful chromium
ornaments of the luxurious modern cars and aircraft.The uniform made
his somewhat stocky figure the epitome of the new age, ruled by the
stars of technical perfection, beauty, and above all harmony.The
Diktatura was the first government which had dared to assume total
power over and total responsibility for the lives and happiness of
its people.Under the sway of its master plan, guided by its ultimate
ideology, all men and things harmonized, cooperated and coordinated;
dissonances were forbidden.And the vast harmony of a nation found its
summit and symbol in this one man, the almighty father of his people. | Abernathy, Robert - Righteous plague |
Without his knowledge no sparrow fell to the ground in his borders, and
in his files all the hairs of his subjects' heads were numbered.The great Dr. Euge was only one among hundreds of millions whose work
and rewards and recreations and very thoughts were arranged for their
own benefit; but at the same time he was something more.As long as the
Diktatura was not world-wide, there would be groups and nations in the
clashing chaos beyond the frontier which plotted with envious hatred to
destroy it.The earthly paradise must be defended; Euge's position as
a top scientist in a field vital to defense elevated him almost to the
level of the politico-economic planners. * * * * *
The Dictator greeted Euge with a man-to-man warmth he did not use
toward those to whom he was something much like a god. "Well, doctor,
how is the health of your virus? And of those who have sampled it? "The scientist said quietly, "Of the sixteen specimens you sent me, all
but one died within ten days after inoculation." "Ah? And the one?" "That is the strange thing. It would seem that--the virus has some
preference in victims. "The Dictator blinked, his most marked expression of surprise. "Explain!" Euge's face was unreadable. "Before I go into details," he suggested,
"let us consider the nature of the perfect biological weapon. ""Perhaps you have discovered the perfect weapon?" The Dictator frowned;
"you are being obscure." "Then," said Euge stolidly, "suppose I put it negatively. What is wrong
with most biological weapons?" "They are treacherous." "Exactly.Virus RM3 was our best development up to now; it has a
contagion index and mortality rate of 100, with the psychological
advantage of bringing about death in a rather repulsive fashion; it is
easily produced and distributed, and there is no known counteragent.So
it cannot be used as a weapon; it is too dangerous to the user." "We were over that before," said the Dictator. They had been, and he
had found it hard to stomach.Especially when he reflected that the
enemy, while it was improbable they had duplicated the creation of RM3,
might have equally deadly weapons, which similar considerations would
deter them from using--unless driven to suicidal retaliation.It was
known, though, that the enemy had been fortunately slow in developing
the technique of disease mutation--the methods of irradiation,
centrifugal selection and automatic scanning which could produce and
analyze thousands of cultures at a time, compress millions of years of
micro-organic evolution into weeks or days. "The single case of immunity to RM4," said Euge drily, "had no bases
that became evident either at once or on the closest comparison of
the physiological data, both pre-inoculation and post mortem.I was
on the point of giving up and deciding to repeat the experiment, when
it occurred to me to contact the Political Police and ask for their
dossiers on all the specimens.After a little delay, my request was
granted--"
"I know," said the Dictator impatiently; "I approved it myself. ""Well--the fifteen men who died of RM4 were run-of-the mill criminals
and political offenders--malcontents stupid enough to express
themselves antisocially.But the survivor was a Witness of the Lord--a
religious maniac, arrested for overstepping the limits of toleration
in an impromptu sermon. A man of scanty intelligence, barely above the
euthanasia level. "Those facts, however, were less interesting than the letter attached
to the dossier. It stated that, after a review of the case inspired by
my particular interest in it, the Political Police had concluded that
the man's arrest had been a mistake.You know that those fanatics,
though not our most desirable elements, are mostly harmless and even
useful, with their 'whatever is, is right' theology. This one's loyalty
seems to have been beyond question. "The Dictator's eyes glowed with a sudden energy. "When the Popo admits
a mistake, there's really been one!" His breath whistled between his
teeth. "I--begin to--see." He started pacing up and down the room. "The
perfect weapon--an intelligent virus! ""Not intelligent," denied Euge heavily. "The day we develop a thinking
virus here--a thing I do not believe possible--I will call for an
atomic bomb to be dropped on the laboratory.RM4, evolved from an
encephalitic measles strain, attacks primarily the brain--as it
seems now, only certain types of brains. Of course, the data are
insufficient.Some of the lower animals tested were immune--but you
can't draw safe analogies between animals and men. I'll need more human
material." "You'll get it!" The Dictator halted and stood very straight,
glittering impressively in his uniform. "How many--"
"This time I will need a control...."
3
So twenty-five healthy privates of the Dictator's Honor Guard,
handpicked for courage, rigid honesty and selfless loyalty to the
leader, were hospitalized and injected with potent doses of viciously
lethal culture RM4-2197.They were told that it was a new immunization
which would soon become regulation throughout the armed forces.And twenty-five prisoners, likewise healthy save for the twist in
their minds that made them seditionists and rebels instead of Honor
Guardsmen, received the same injection and were told the same story.The results were almost fantastically satisfactory. The twenty-five
convicts died, one and all, with the uncontrolled spasms and
twitchings, lapsing into stupor, that told of the virus' progress
in the higher nerve centers.Their isolated barracks, together with
the unimportant orderlies who had cared for it and the victims, were
sterilized, almost obliterated by caustic chemicals and flame.Meantime
the Honor Guard in their separate quarantine rolled dice and exchanged
dirty jokes and felt no ill effects.The Dictator had commanded that he be first to know the outcome; he,
who fancied himself as a poet of human destiny, also liked to think
that he had a scientific mind, and in this matter, on which the world's
future might hinge, he wished to make his own observations and draw
his own conclusions.But promptly after receiving the news he visited
Euge again to shower him with jubilant congratulations. "Now," he announced fervently, "we must have a final experiment, to
be wholly sure.One on a far grander scale than before--than any
experiment ever was before! I want a large supply of Virus RM4, in
sealed cylinders of five or six liters each, under pressure. Prepared
as for military use, you understand.The rest I will take care of." Euge bowed his head in acquiescence, and refrained from mentioning his
mice. | Abernathy, Robert - Righteous plague |
* * * * *
Long rows of glass cells where mice lived and died by ones and twos
and threes, were in the contagion laboratory, where by Euge's orders
only he and Novik worked now.Less flamboyantly than the Dictator, Euge
liked to be sure, and he repeated his experiments doggedly until the
statistical results leveled off at well-defined norms.Infected mice, segregated in solitary confinement, developed symptoms
and died in the ratio of sixty-five out of a hundred. Among similarly
exposed animals distributed two to a cage, the mortality averaged
somewhat over eighty-seven per cent.In threes, ninety-six per cent. And when he tried isolating a hundred mice, four to a cage, all of them
died. In every case, if one mouse in a group took the disease, so did
the rest. That was not unreasonable.Re-exposure by contact with more susceptible
specimens.... But Euge played with his apparent immunes. He rigged a
number of cages so that the occupants, their food and their water were
constantly under a fine mist of virus poison.And only a couple of
them died. Then, with difficulty and some danger, working in armor, he
opened the cages and shifted the living mice about, breaking up groups
and creating new ones.In the next few days, the immunes' mortality
rate was better than forty per cent. And in an adjoining storeroom, cleared for the purpose, Euge set up
another and cruder experiment.Mice that had survived exposure to RM4
were imprisoned in sealed glass runs, and in the room at large were let
loose the half-dozen lean alley cats that Novik had procured.The cats
roamed hungrily about, mewed and clawed at the glass and had difficulty
understanding that there was no way of getting at the mice.And the
mice, likewise deceived, ran and squeaked in terror--and quickly
succumbed to the convulsions and lethargy of encephalitis.But when he provided opaque shelters, where the mice could conceal
themselves part of the time, most of them remained immune. The cats, Euge determined, were wholly immune; massive injections of
the virus did no more than infuriate them.Sleeping fitfully in the
small hours, he had nightmares in which the carnivora inherited an
Earth from which men and rodents had vanished. That was only one of his nightmares.He was as phlegmatic as a man need
be in his line of work, but now his peace of mind had gone glimmering,
and he was at odds with his world.From the time when mature reflection
had replaced the last sparks of youthful rebellion in him, he had
been a faithful and coddled servant of the Diktatura, but now he was
increasingly certain that his failure to make known his new data was
treason.A fatalistic streak tried to comfort him, whispering that even
if he spoke it would make no difference.Of only one thing was he sure: he wanted to know....
* * * * *
The Dictator took some time in the preparation of the experiment.A
city of twenty thousand people had to be isolated temporarily from the
rest of the country, and unobtrusively surrounded with troops, guns and
bombers, in case things went disastrously wrong.The isolation was accomplished, by means of a complete embargo on
land and air transportation out of the test area, only an hour before
a few small planes droned over the city, trailing an impalpable and
invisible mist of virus-laden solution.The published and broadcast
reason for the emergency measures was truthfully plausible--a
threatened outbreak of disease, understood to be sleeping sickness.The
difference in symptoms between ordinary _encephalitis lethargica_ and
that produced by RM4 was so slight that few if any of the doctors who
were shipped into the city recognized anything peculiar in the cases
they treated, apart from the high--100%--fatality.It was not necessary
that they know any better, since they were only a part of the ardently
pursued campaign to allay public suspicion and anxiety and prevent an
undesirable panic.The soothing propaganda and example of the authorities, and the
diligence of the Popo agents who swarmed in the stricken area, were so
successful that no mass plague-terror reared its head, though the death
toll during the three weeks it took for the epidemic to run its course
climbed to almost a thousand.Several doctors and a couple of secret policemen contracted the
disease, and, of course, died. That was fair enough, but a far more
untoward incident came near marring the Dictator's pleasure in his
experiment.Chaber, the Popo chief, crossing the country on one of his frequent
incognito tours, happened to be caught in the test city's railway
station by the travel interdict.It took him more than an hour to
convince the distracted officials in charge of enforcing the ban that
a man in his position was above such things, so that he and his aides
were still there when the virus-carrying planes did their job.The Dictator, receiving belated word, was furious. A flying squad of
Honor Guardsmen intercepted Chaber's private train, ran it onto a
siding and held the police chief and his staff there in something very
like arrest.True, the Dictator sent a message to assure Chaber that
the quarantine was a purely temporary result of someone else's mistake,
and that matters would soon be cleared up....
For Chaber they never were.He died eight days later in the coma of
RM4 infection.Most of his aides preceded or followed him by a day or
so; and when the last radioed reports indicated that the contagion was
spreading to the Guards, the Dictator gave horrified orders and the
plague-infested train was set on fire by incendiary bombs.About the same time, past one o'clock in the morning, Dr. Euge was
dragged out of bed and haled unceremoniously before the Dictator.The scientist listened dispassionately to his first news of Chaber's
misfortune and to excited demands for an explanation.He was more at
peace with himself now than he had been for long; he was prepared to
lie coldly and directly, to ensure the unfolding of events to their
logical conclusion. But no lie seemed to be needed yet. "I would suggest," said Euge calmly, "that you impound the deceased's
papers and personal effects, and subject them to rigorous examination. You may find the reason for his death--about which I know no more than
you. "Euge cooled his heels under house arrest for twenty-four hours before
he was summoned again to the Dictator's presence.The leader was
himself again; he greeted Euge with that warm smile which had made more
impressionable men fall at his feet in adoration. "You were right, doctor.The man was, if not an actual traitor, at
least a potential one; he was slyly subverting the loyalty of his
immediate subordinates, with the idea of making himself paramount in
the government.His death becomes a striking demonstration of your
virus's value." A new shadow passed over the Dictator's face as he
recalled how he had trusted Chaber. | Abernathy, Robert - Righteous plague |
"4
During the speech to the people, the first rockets had already risen
from their scattered launching sites and were soaring at ten, fifteen,
twenty miles per second over continents and oceans.The enemy was not
unprepared; his immensely complex and expensive systems of warning
and defense, radar-eyed, electric-nerved and robot-brained, were
fully on.But that defense setup, which laced a whole nation and
concentrated bristlingly over the great cities, was designed primarily
to detect, deflect and destroy projectiles with atomic warheads,
which must approach within a few miles of their targets to do damage.The bombardment rockets of the Diktatura burst quietly high in the
stratosphere, before very many of them were met and annihilated by
the interceptor barrage.Their cargoes dispersed earthward in a rain
of little protective plastic globes, which, as they fell through the
warm restless levels of the troposphere, darkened and shriveled in a
fantastically swift chemical decay, and spewed their liquid contents in
a fine spray into the air.Six days before--the virus' average incubation period--the code word
had been sent out to the spies and the native fifth columnists who
served the Diktatura for pay or loyalty's sake.It was their mission to
distribute the small quantities of Virus RM4 which had been smuggled
to them, in such a way as to make the plague's initial onslaught as
paralysing as possible.The enemy's total destruction in the end was
foregone; but his power to strike back must be cut down to a minimum. The broadcasts and the headlines continued to proclaim to the nation
that this was Victory Day. * * * * *
Euge had cleared away the remains of his experiments methodically. There was nothing more to be learned that way, and most of the
establishment was converted now to helping in the mass production of
Virus RM4.Euge locked up the contagion laboratory and settled down
by his private televisor to observe the progress of the ultimate
experiment, whose laboratory was the world.Guessing as he did the reason for Novik's failure to return, he was
little surprised or alarmed when a half-dozen booted Guardsmen clumped
in on him, and their leader informed him that he was again confined to
quarters. "If the Dictator wishes to see me--" began Euge politely. "The Dictator's busy," said the squad leader. "He'll talk to you in due
time." "I understand," Euge nodded resignedly, and turned back to his
newscasts.His own name was repeated in them with considerable frequency, and
recorded pictures of him were broadcast. He was understood to be a
modest hero of science, with a passion for anonymity.In the Dictator's
due time, Euge realized, he might receive the accolade of a martyr to
science. He passed over the mentions of himself impatiently.Once he had rather
liked the modicum of glory and the comfort that the Diktatura granted
him in return for his work, but now he was down to basic motives, and
his desire to live was largely a product of his avid curiosity to see
what the offspring of his curiosity would do to mankind's world.The picture emerged but slowly from behind the bright parade of
censored reports; only for one like Euge, who had some experience of
the government's inside ways and who, moreover, knew better than any
other living man what to expect, did it emerge at all.It was evident before long that the enemy's resistance was greater than
anticipated.Easy to say "according to plan", but it was impossible to
ignore or gloss over the news when enemy atomic rockets leaked through
the defenses, and a city here or there puffed skyward in a pillar of
smoke and flame.Or when highflying enemy machines sowed the seeds of
a controllable, but extremely nasty epidemic, which touched even the
capital. The fifth-column offensive must have failed miserably.Naturally, the
first to die in the enemy's country would have been those entrusted
with spreading the plague. Euge wondered if the Dictator had found that
out, and if so, what he thought about it.Never acknowledged, but quickly apparent to the expectant Euge from
certain veiled illusions, denials and instructions that came over the
air, was the beginning spread of RM4, in its active and lethal form
(the latent infection must be almost universal now), among the people
of the Diktatura.In his head Euge kept a map, in which the increasing
areas that the newscasts never mentioned were represented by creeping
splotches of blackness.When he examined and revised it, he was wont
to lean back with closed eyes, on his lips a faint smile that made his
guards look uneasily at one another. Immured, Euge had no means of learning directly what spirit was abroad
in the masses.But he could make shrewd deductions from the changing
tones of the propaganda directed at them.Within the space of less than
a month, it shifted from paeans of celebration for a quick and easy
conquest to the harsh task of inspiring a fiercely realistic, do-or-die
determination, to which Victory was once again a far wandering fire,
beckoning out of storm and darkness ahead.Realism went as far as an admission that the initial biological attack
had failed to fulfill the hopes pinned on it. The plague had taken hold
and spread slowly, but, on the bright side, it was doing its work now
all the more thoroughly....There followed a map, showing the estimated
extent of plague areas in the enemy lands, and an extrapolation by
noted pathologists of the time that must pass, the time that must be
endured with courage, fortitude and hard work, before the foe would be
blotted from the face of the Earth.Euge closed his eyes and made comparisons with his private map and with
his extrapolations from it, and he smiled unpleasantly yet again.He asked for and received a bundle of newspapers; it was among those
there chanced to be an ill-printed pamphlet issued by the Witnesses of
the Lord, which stated positively that, had the original experiments
been correctly understood, it would have been plain at once that
RM4 was the Judgment Virus, come to slay the wicked and spare the
righteous, whose lintels were sprinkled with blood....
Euge read the pamphlet through with a sharp quickening of interest, but
when he had finished he shook his head sadly. * * * * *
He was brought before the Dictator for the last time. The leader's eyes were sunken and spoke of sleepless nights. They
rested on Euge with the cold impersonal enmity of a snake's. "You lied to me," he stated flatly. "No," denied the scientist. "I let you interpret the data in your own
way. It is not my fault that you believed what you wanted to believe." The Dictator strove visibly to say what he had planned. "I have
recalled you, despite grave suspicions, to--to appeal for assistance. Perhaps you have had pacifist sentiments all along--" Euge made a
scornful gesture. | Abernathy, Robert - Righteous plague |
End of preview. Expand
in Dataset Viewer.
DramaLlama dataset
This is the dataset repository of DramaLlama. This repository contains scripts designed to gather and prepare the dataset.
Note: This repository builds upon the findings of https://github.com/molbal/llm-text-completion-finetune
Step 1: Getting novels
We will use The Gutenberg project again to gather novels. Let's get some drama categories. I will aim for a larger dataset size this time.
I'm running the following scripts:
pip install requests
python .\pipeline\step1-acquire.py --output_dir "./training-data/0_raw/" --topic "detective fiction" --num_records 10000
python .\pipeline\step1-acquire.py --output_dir "./training-data/0_raw/" --topic "crime nonfiction" --num_records 10000
python .\pipeline\step1-acquire.py --output_dir "./training-data/0_raw/" --topic "mystery fiction" --num_records 10000
python .\pipeline\step1-acquire.py --output_dir "./training-data/0_raw/" --topic "detective fiction" --num_records 10000
python .\pipeline\step1-acquire.py --output_dir "./training-data/0_raw/" --topic "gothic fiction" --num_records 10000
python .\pipeline\step1-acquire.py --output_dir "./training-data/0_raw/" --topic "horror" --num_records 10000
python .\j\step1-acquire.py --output_dir "./training-data/0_raw/" --topic "romantic fiction" --num_records 10000
python .\pipeline\step1-acquire.py --output_dir "./training-data/0_raw/" --topic "short stories" --num_records 10000
python .\pipeline\step1-acquire.py --output_dir "./training-data/0_raw/" --topic "western" --num_records 10000
Step 2: Preprocessing
Step 2/a: Stripping header and footer
Now we need to strip the headers and footers of the files. I noticed how some files failed to download, and those ones do not have a file extension. This might be caused by a bug in the downloader script, but it was ~200 errors for me out of ~4000 downloads so
python .\pipeline\step2a-strip.py --input_dir "./training-data/0_raw/" --output_dir "./training-data/2a_stripped/"
Step 2/b: Stripping
We do a bit more cleaning. We have two files, a blacklist and a junklist. Blacklist contains expressions that we do not want included in the trainig data, I filled it with common ChatGPT output. (We do not need to worry, as our training data comes well before ChatGPT, but still) Junklist's contents are simply removed from it. These are distribution notes here.
Here we chunk to small pieces, (~250) and if a chunk contains a blacklisted sentence, it is sent to our local LLM to rephrase it.
Note: We need Ollama for this installed on the local environment
ollama pull mistral
pip install nltk ollama
python .\pipeline\step2b-clean.py --input_dir "./training-data/2a_stripped/" --output_dir "./training-data/2b_cleaned/" --llm "mistral"
After this, it puts the files back together in the output directory.
Step 3: Chunking
We chunk the dataset now and save it into a parquet file.
pip install pandas pyarrow
python .\pipeline\step3-chunking.py --source_dir "./training-data/2b_cleaned/" --output_file "./training-data/data.parquet"
Step 4: 🤗 dataset upload
We upload the dataset to Hugging Face: https://huggingface.co/datasets/molbal/dramallama-novels
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